


The Long Way Home

by Arbryna



Category: Legend of the Seeker, Lost Girl
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arbryna/pseuds/Arbryna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In her service to Darken Rahl, Tamsin has seen a lot--but nothing could have prepared her for what happens when she captures a certain confessor named Bo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You might as well just kill me.” 

Tamsin grinds her teeth, yanking a little harder than necessary on the rope tied around her captive’s wrists. “Don’t tempt me.” 

The confessor hasn’t stopped talking since Tamsin captured her, and it’s starting to make her reconsider her understanding of the word “torture”. It’s bad enough that the rest of her quad fell in the battle with the Resistance; Tamsin isn’t accustomed to losing, especially against soft, untrained villagers. 

Of course, none of them had been expecting the confessor. She eschewed the signature white dress that usually marked her kind, instead wearing dark wool breeches and a leather vest, and the way she carried herself was far from the arrogant superiority Tamsin had come to associate with confessors. As a disguise, it had worked far too effectively. 

It had only been luck and Tamsin’s quick thinking that allowed her to escape. In a matter of seconds, she’d seen the confessor’s hand wrap around her sister’s throat, watched them both fall to their knees. The Mord-Sith had been done for—there was no coming back from a confessor’s touch, no escaping the agonizing death—but the confessor, well…she had been another story. Weak from using her power, she’d been unable to fight as Tamsin coiled the rope around her wrists, carefully immobilizing her hands. With the battle still raging around them, Tamsin had thrown the confessor over her shoulder and made a quick exit. Her sisters are done for, but Lord Rahl will reward her handsomely when she presents him with his very own confessor. 

If only she would stop _talking_. 

“It won’t work, you know,” the confessor says, with that stubborn defiance that Tamsin so enjoys beating out of people. Tamsin focuses on the path ahead of her, trying her best to block out the confessor’s voice, but it doesn’t work. “Whatever you or your precious Lord Rahl do to me, I’ll never help him.”

This time Tamsin stops and turns, coiling the rope around her hand to keep it taut as she steps in close to the confessor. “How sweet,” she coos, a cold smirk spreading across her lips. “You actually think you have a say in the matter.”

Doubt flickers through the confessor’s eyes, proof that she’s smarter than she looks. Soon enough, though, that spark returns. The confessor yanks hard with her wrists in some futile attempt to free herself, raises her chin defiantly. “My friends will find me,” she says, taking a different approach. “They have horses, and Dyson is the best tracker in the Midlands.” 

Tamsin laughs. “Your _friends_ can’t come find you if they’re dead,” she says, quirking an eyebrow. “The Dragon Corps is en route to your little hideout as we speak.” 

The confessor’s eyes search Tamsin’s, trying in vain to determine the truth of her words. “You’re lying,” she finally says, though she doesn’t seem at all confident. 

“Are you sure about that?” Tamsin challenges. She knows confessors can’t read Mord-Sith, but it seems this particular confessor has a lot to learn about her own powers. When her question goes unanswered, Tamsin whirls around to continue walking. “Give up, confessor,” she throws over her shoulder, giving the rope a sharp tug for good measure. “You’ve already lost.” She doesn’t have to turn around to know that brown eyes are glaring daggers into her back.

“My name is Bo.”

***

“So what’s your name?”

A pause. “Why?”

“We won’t reach the People’s Palace for weeks. If I’m going to be stuck with only you for company, it’d be nice to know what to call you.”

“Mistress will be fine.” 

Bo scoffs. “I’m not calling you that.”

“Suit yourself.” Tamsin shrugs. 

“I told you my name.”

“I never asked.”

“Are you ashamed of it or something? Is it embarrassing?”

A deep breath turns into an irritated sigh. “If I tell you, will you shut up?”

“Maybe.”

“Tamsin.” 

“Tamsin. Well, I wish I could say it was a pleasure, but I generally don’t enjoy being tied up and dragged all over creation.”

“Just wait. An hour in Lord Rahl’s custody and you’ll be longing for my tender touch.”

***

Bo is exhausted, her legs aching. Her captor is setting a punishing pace, and it’s been hours since the meager breakfast she ate in Trick’s tavern. Tamsin seems unaffected, moving forward ceaselessly as the sun travels across the sky overhead. Surely even Mord-Sith need to eat?

“I doubt Lord Rahl will be pleased if I starve to death before you get the chance to deliver me,” Bo finally says, when the growling in her stomach seems likely to devour her whole body from the inside. 

“You’d be better company,” Tamsin remarks. Her voice takes on a contemplative tone. “And I could always revive you with the Breath of Life.” 

Bo glares at the back of Tamsin’s head, wondering—not for the first time—if she could lunge forward fast enough to grab the pale blonde braid hanging down her back, to pull the Mord-Sith back just enough to touch her skin and release her power. It didn’t work the last five times she tried it, though, so it’s probably smarter to conserve her energy. Besides, Bo has found that she really doesn’t enjoy being jabbed with an agiel. 

“But no,” Tamsin says after a beat, with an almost wistful sigh. “I’d have to carry you again, and that is far more trouble than you’re worth.”

“I’m not that heavy,” Bo retorts, before she realizes that it may not be the smartest idea to try to convince Tamsin to kill her. 

Tamsin peers back over her shoulder, the ghost of a smirk playing at her lips. “Did I hurt your precious feelings, confessor?” 

“Hardly,” Bo bites back with a withering glare. “But I’m not going to be able to keep going much longer without food.” 

“You’ll keep going as long as it takes,” Tamsin replies, turning her eyes back to the path ahead. “We’ll stop at nightfall.”

Turning her eyes skyward, Bo groans softly to herself. The sun is still barely touching the tops of the trees overhead, which means she’s in for a long, hungry walk.

***

Bo tries not to grimace as she takes another bite of roasted rabbit. Cooking is clearly not a skill the Mord-Sith excel at, and letting Bo help would have required her hands to be untied. Not that Bo would have been much help, in any case—especially with the limited supplies in Tamsin’s pack. She misses Trick and his kitchen full of spices.

Any other night, they would all be sitting down for supper right now. Trick’s tavern would be lit with soft lamplight, and Trick would be serving up his latest delectable creation. Bo and Dyson would be talking about the day’s weapons training, or discussing strategy with Trick and Hale, while Kenzi stuffed her face as usual. Lauren would be quietly observing, offering suggestions where she could or filling them in on what healing supplies she was low on, so they might pick them up the next time they ride out. 

Tonight, she hopes only that they’re all safe, that Tamsin was lying about the Dragon Corps’ raid. Creator willing, Dyson and Hale are hot on her trail, and will catch up in plenty of time to save her from the clutches of Darken Rahl. 

“What does he want with me, anyway?” Bo asks after forcing down more meat. It may not be the best thing she’s ever eaten, but after going the whole day without, she’s hardly in the mood to be choosy—even if attempting to eat with her hands bound to the log beneath her is one of the most awkward things she’s ever done. “I thought he hated confessors.”

Tamsin eyes her for a moment from across the fire, as if unsure whether the question is actually a serious one. “Is that not reason enough to want you captured?” she replies, apparently deciding that Bo’s confusion is genuine.

“I should think he’d rather have me killed,” Bo counters. “Why go to all this trouble to bring me in alive?”

The smile that grows on Tamsin’s lips is feral and cruel. “You’re much more useful to him alive,” she says, cold eyes raking appraisingly over Bo’s body. “And more fun.”

Bo tries to suppress the shiver that seizes her spine, but only partly succeeds; victory flashes briefly in Tamsin’s features. “You really enjoy it, don’t you?” Bo challenges, trying at least to regain the upper hand in the conversation. “Violence, pain. You get off on it.” 

“You have no idea,” is Tamsin’s reply, the words deep and honey-thick. Her teeth flash in the light from the fire, malice glittering in her pale eyes. 

Until the quad arrived to raid Trick’s tavern earlier today, Bo had never met a Mord-Sith. The stories she’s heard all her life have always seemed too extreme to be believed, but looking at Tamsin now, Bo knows they’re all true. It’s almost too much to wrap her head around.

“What’s wrong, confessor?” Tamsin goads. “Do I shock your delicate sensibilities? Are you disgusted? Enraged?”

“Sad,” Bo admits, feeling it settle over her heavy and profound. “I can’t imagine…” She shakes her head. “I was born what I am, for better or worse, but you…you were _made_ into a monster.”

The look Tamsin gives her is hard and uncomprehending; as Bo might have expected, pity is the least welcome thing she could offer. “You know nothing about me,” Tamsin finally sneers, her brow tight. 

“I know that you were a little girl once,” Bo replies, though she can scarcely imagine it now. “And that you were tortured into doing terrible things.”

Tamsin laughs, but her amusement is cold and distant. “Oh, they tortured me,” she confirms with a smirk. “But I didn’t need much convincing for what they asked me to do.” 

Curiosity has always been both a blessing and a curse for Bo; for some inexplicable reason, she wants to know what lurks in Tamsin’s past, wants to know all the pieces that somehow fit together to make this formidable woman. At the same time, she’s almost afraid of what she might learn. 

“If you’re done chattering,” Tamsin says, when Bo stares for just a little too long, “you should finish your meal and get some rest. It’s a long journey, and I can promise I won’t be going easy on you.”

Bo chokes down the rest of her food in silence. She’ll need all the energy she can get if she hopes to escape.

***

Escape, however, proves to be far more difficult than Bo hoped. She feigns sleep as she listens to Tamsin move around their makeshift camp, tending to the fire and checking the perimeter. With one last tug to check the ropes binding Bo to the log that’s serving as her pillow, Tamsin moves away, and after a while there is no sound left but that of the wind in the trees and the wildlife native to this part of the Midlands.

After what feels like a safe amount of time, Bo cracks an eye open to find Tamsin asleep against the trunk of a nearby tree, her chest rising and falling rhythmically with each deep, even breath. How anyone can sleep in that restrictive leather armor, Bo has no idea, but it’s not her most pressing concern at the moment. Slowly, carefully, she shifts to give her arms some slack and examines her bonds. The knots are expertly made, and more complicated than anything Bo has ever seen. Tugging on any one part seems only to tighten the whole thing, until her wrists are throbbing from the pressure and her fingertips start to go numb. 

A glance around tells her that Tamsin was very thorough in combing the immediate area for anything remotely useful. There’s not a stick or sharp rock to be found, and the log Bo is fastened to has long been smoothed away, its bark and branches picked away by wildlife or other travelers. With no other option, Bo sets herself to gnawing at the rope with her teeth. 

It takes a few minutes of this for Bo’s jaw to begin to ache, and soon after that it becomes too sharp to ignore. Pulling back, she looks down only to find that she’s barely made any progress at all. She tries again, holding tight to the thought of being reunited with her friends. No pain is too great if it means her freedom.


	2. Chapter 2

Bo wakes to the insistent nudge of a boot to her hip, and Tamsin peering down at her impatiently. As she comes to her senses, she realizes that she fell asleep somewhere in the midst of her escape attempt. The rope is rough against her cheek, and when she lifts her head away from it, the sharp sting suggests that she’ll probably have a nice deep imprint for most of the morning. 

Breakfast is whatever leftover rabbit Bo can bolt down in the time it takes for Tamsin to extinguish the remnants of their fire. Once that’s done, the Mord-Sith turns her focus to expertly untying the knots Bo attacked so determinedly last night, then unceremoniously yanks Bo to her feet. 

Walking is excruciating, far more so today than yesterday. Bo’s body is aching from sleeping in such an awkward position, and in any case it’s been a long time since she’s had to spend the night on the cold, hard ground—since before she met Kenzi, when she was still on the run from her past and a nature that she didn’t fully understand. On top of that, her jaw is stiff and sore, and her legs feel ready to collapse beneath her with every step. 

Conversation is the only thing that manages to distract Bo from the pain. It’s all too clear that Tamsin prefers silence, and Bo finds a petty sort of satisfaction in being able to torment her captor. She regales Tamsin with stories of hunting with Dyson, of Trick’s cooking, of Lauren’s off-beat sense of humor. She takes particular pleasure in the derisive snorts and cynical scoffs she elicits from Tamsin when relaying the story of Kenzi and Hale’s complicated style of courtship. She’s careful not to reveal any details that could be used against her friends, though she’s pretty sure Tamsin is doing her best not to listen anyway. 

That night, when Bo is finished forcing down another meal of badly roasted meat—pheasant, this time—Tamsin unties Bo’s wrists, shifting them behind her back before retying them and securing Bo to the trunk of a tree. The hint of amusement in her unyielding eyes says that it’s not just for lack of a suitable log: Tamsin knows exactly what Bo attempted last night.

“Do yourself a favor,” Tamsin drawls, the corner of her mouth twitching upward as she gives the final knot a yank, “and don’t bother trying. Lord Rahl himself couldn’t get out of these bonds.”

It doesn’t stop Bo from making the attempt, but after a half an hour with no progress, Bo has to concede that Tamsin is probably right. At least she’s more comfortable tonight.

***

On the third day of their journey, Tamsin finds the path blocked by a half-dozen bandits. She’s almost grateful; Bo was just getting into some story about that friend of hers—Kelly, Kassie, something with a “K”—and the idea of hauling the confessor’s dead carcass over her shoulder the rest of the way to the People’s Palace was getting more appealing by the second. The distraction is a welcome one.

They’re not too bright, these bandits—a fact that becomes clear from the start when they don’t turn tail and run at the sight of a Mord-Sith. Their armor is a jumble of worn leather and tarnished steel, and their weapons show signs of being sharpened almost to the point of snapping. Tamsin lets a grin spread across her lips as she draws her agiel. This should be easy. 

The first two fall in quick succession—they don’t all charge at once, which is their second in what will surely be a long series of mistakes—as Tamsin kicks out at one while her agiel finds the other’s heart. Fighting one-handed while keeping a firm hold on the rope tied to Bo’s wrists is a refreshing challenge, one that is heightened when the remaining four decide to get a clue and advance together. 

Somewhere in the midst of the fighting, Tamsin realizes she has fewer opponents than she did when they started. She jabs her agiel in the last man’s throat and twists, looking around to find the total body count at four. The rope in her hand is much shorter than it was, an arm’s length leading up to a frayed end, and Bo is nowhere in sight.

“Shit.”

***

“Thank you so much for rescuing me,” Bo gushes, stumbling along as one of the bandits tugs at the rope still bound to her hands. “If you hadn’t come along, the Creator only knows what that monster would have done to me.”

The man leading her is lanky, with hair that hasn’t been trimmed in ages. It may have been copper, once, but now it’s a dingy brown color that suggests he hasn’t seen a bath in a while, either. He turns to his companion, a shorter, plumper man whose head is nearly hairless save for a matted beard. “Hear that? We rescued her,” he chuckles, not bothering to look back. 

“You’re very brave for standing up to such a formidable opponent,” Bo continues, carefully taking note of where their weapons are. She drops her voice to a seductive purr. “There must be something I can do to thank you.” 

That’s enough to make them both stop in their tracks. The taller man turns and leers at her, his eyes lingering predictably on her chest. In a way, Bo is thankful that Tamsin tied her wrists the way she did; the position pushes her breasts together and makes a more tempting display. The lecherous grin that spreads over the man’s lips tells Bo that he very much approves. 

“Well, I think we could work something out,” he says, taking a step toward Bo. 

His companion grabs his arm, leaning in to speak in what he probably thinks is a voice too quiet for Bo to hear. “That wasn’t the plan.”

The taller man tears his eyes away from Bo long enough to glare at his friend. “What, you think the D’Harans won’t pay if we have a little fun first? The Mord-Sith had her for a reason, and she don’t seem like no virgin.” 

Both men glance back at Bo, and she smiles, feigning ignorance. The shorter of the two considers the argument, then smiles. “You got a point. Let’s just get her off the road first,” he says, looking around for any sign of Tamsin catching up. “And I get her when you’re done.” 

Bo tries to hide her satisfaction at the outcome as she is led off of the road. They stop far too soon, but she’s not about to argue. There’s only one more thing she needs to get out of this and on her way back home. 

“You are a very handsome man,” Bo says, watching appreciatively as the taller man fumbles with the laces of his pants. “Such big muscles.”

The flattery hits its mark all too easily, and he grins, stepping closer to her. “Yeah?”

“Uh huh.” Bo nods, biting her lower lip. “I want to feel them under my hands. If you untie me, I could have a lot more fun with you.”

He chuckles, pulling the rope to tug her closer. “I won’t be doing that.”

It was a long shot, but she had to try. Bo lets him direct her onto the ground and waits for him to come closer, close enough to touch his skin. It will be harder with her hands bound, but not impossible. She tries not to wrinkle her nose; she can smell him already, and it’s not going to get any better. 

Before he reaches her, the whine of an agiel pierces the air, quickly followed by a gurgling cry as the shorter man crumples to the ground.

“I think you have something of mine.”

Bo doesn’t know whether to be grateful or disappointed to see Tamsin’s scowling face. She’ll worry about it later, though; right now her would-be suitor is whirling to confront the Mord-Sith, which means she has a narrow window of opportunity. She scrambles to her feet as the remaining bandit draws his sword and sets off running in the other direction. 

She makes it about ten meters before the rope still trailing behind her snaps taut, whipping her around and sending her tumbling to the ground. Tamsin stands over her, an eyebrow raised and a smirk teasing at her lips.

“Going somewhere?”


	3. Chapter 3

“What exactly were you trying to do back there?” Tamsin asks, once they’re back on the road. “Did you think you could give them a quick roll in the hay and they would just escort you back home and be on their way?”

Bo gives the rope a petulant yank. No doubt she’s disappointed with her failure. “I _thought_ I could confess one of them and escape that way,” she explains. “It was a better chance than I have with you.” 

“Clever.” It’s the closest Tamsin will come to admitting that she’s actually impressed. It’s a good plan, if not one she’d ever have expected from a confessor—she didn’t think confessors _had_ feminine wiles. If Tamsin had been slower in disposing of the bandits, it may have even worked. It seems they’ve both underestimated each other. “But no one steals from a Mord-Sith.”

***

After another hour or so of walking, Tamsin leads them off of the road down a little-used hunting path. They stop at the banks of a wide, shallow river, and Tamsin starts tying Bo’s lead off to a sturdy tree.

“Why are we stopping?” Bo asks, glancing up at the sky. “It’s only midday.” 

“We’re crossing the river.” Tamsin gives the knot she’s working on one last tug before stepping back out of reach. “In case you still think your little friends are on our trail.” 

A victorious smile spreads across Bo’s face. “So you _were_ lying about the Dragon Corps.” 

“Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t,” Tamsin says with a shrug. Her eyes are still frustratingly impossible to read. “I don’t see where it makes much difference for you. You’ll probably never see them again either way.” 

Relief turns into dread flooding Bo’s chest as she stares out at the water. She wants to believe she’ll get out of this, that Dyson and Hale will find her, but if she crosses the river it will be next to impossible to track her. She’ll have to find some way to escape on her own—but after almost three days, she’s running out of ideas. 

There’s a dull thump as Tamsin’s neck-guard hits the dirt at their feet, and Bo’s eyes snap back to find that Tamsin is methodically unlacing her leather armor. “You have to be naked to cross the river?” she asks skeptically.

“Wet leather isn’t exactly my favorite thing to be walking around in,” Tamsin says with a withering look. “You might want to lose some layers yourself.”

Bo stares for a moment in disbelief, but when Tamsin reaches up to pull down the top of her leathers, she can’t avert her eyes quickly enough. It takes some maneuvering, but she manages to unlace her boots and remove her pants. She bundles them up together in front of her, using them as meager cover. She hasn’t been this exposed with anyone since—

No. Bo shakes her head. She’s done thinking about that, and it certainly won’t help at all with her current situation. She looks back up to find a very naked Tamsin casually shoving most of her armor into her pack. If Tamsin is concerned about her own nudity, she hides it expertly. 

Not that she has reason to be self-conscious. Tamsin’s body is pale and lithe, muscles flexing visibly under her skin as she moves. The scars that litter her skin only underline her strength. The things this body has survived pale only in comparison to the things it is capable of. 

Tamsin looks up from her pack as she pulls her gloves back on, smirking as she catches Bo’s wide-eyed stare. “See something you like, confessor?” She saunters closer, taking hold of the rope to keep herself safe from Bo’s touch. “You’re not too bad yourself,” she continues, dragging a gloved finger along Bo’s neckline, brushing over the top of her breasts. Bo still can’t read her, but she thinks if she could she would see lust shining in those pale blue-green eyes. Her breath is hot and moist against Bo’s ear. “It’s a shame about your powers. I wouldn’t mind a taste.” 

Something twists in Bo’s gut, some combination of arousal and guilt and fear. Suddenly she’s not standing on a riverbank with a Mord-Sith; she’s lying on her back amidst fallen leaves, watching the setting sun filter down through the branches of trees. The light forms a halo around light brown hair, and kiss-swollen lips smile down at her as her body drowns in sensation. There’s a feeling building inside of her, until it’s so big she can no longer contain it. She cries out as it bursts free, shattering the air around them with a sound that is no sound, a silent thunder that seems to shake the very ground beneath her. When she comes to her senses, hazel eyes are gazing down at her with a devotion that she knows deep in her bones is very, very wrong.

She’s brought back to the present by a firm smack on her ass. Tamsin smirks at her, extending her hand toward the water. “You first.” 

Tears sting at Bo’s eyes, and she shakes her head as she blinks them away. She hasn’t thought of Kyle in a long time—too long. She’s not sure she’ll ever forgive herself—but that’s not important at the moment. Right now, she has a river to cross.

***

The confessor doesn’t speak after that, which both confuses and disturbs Tamsin. Even more disturbing is how Tamsin finds herself unable to enjoy the gift of prolonged silence that has landed in her lap. Somewhere over the past few days, she’s grown accustomed to Bo’s constant nattering, and she’s not sure what to make of this abrupt reticence.

Finally, the soothing hum of pain from gripping her agiel with her free hand is no longer enough to distract her from the unsettling quiet. “I thought confessors were supposed to wear white,” she says, glancing back over her shoulder at Bo’s dark attire.

Bo glances up, narrowing her eyes in bewilderment. “It’s never really been my color,” she snaps back, but her voice lacks some of the bite Tamsin has come to expect from her. She doesn’t elaborate.

Tamsin huffs, turning her focus back on the path ahead of her. Several minutes pass before she tries again. 

“What were you doing with that pathetic excuse for a Resistance, anyway?” Tamsin keeps her voice neutral. She doesn’t want the confessor to think she actually _cares_. “Why are you not with your sisters?” Tamsin’s own sisters are all she’s known for most of her life; she can’t imagine choosing to abandon them—or the lavish temples they call home—to play at being soldiers with common villagers. 

“I’ve never met any of my ‘sisters’,” Bo replies, with no small amount of resentment in her tone. “The Resistance is my family.” She doesn’t offer anything more than that, and her eyes remain fixed on the ground. 

Well, she tried. Tamsin scowls at the dirt under her feet. She’ll be damned if she lets a confessor make her beg for conversation.

***

“It’s not going to do you any good if you just stare at it.”

Bo blinks, then slowly lets her eyes focus on the meat in her hands. “I’m not that hungry,” she says with a shrug. The truth is, she’s starving, but she’s been lost in her memories for most of the day—memories that don’t encourage a healthy appetite. 

“You’re a terrible liar.” Tamsin almost sounds offended. “And I’m not going to go easy on you tomorrow just because you’re too stubborn to eat.” 

“I’ll keep up.” Bo forces herself to take a bite, because she knows even without looking at her that Tamsin is completely serious. She wouldn’t put it past the Mord-Sith to set an even more grueling pace tomorrow just to punish her. 

Silence reigns once again, and Bo gazes into the fire as she slowly chews her food. Finally, Tamsin tosses the stripped bones of her meal into the fire, and the shower of sparks that erupts into the air jolts Bo back to the present. 

“Okay, is it something I said?” Tamsin asks, irritation plain in her voice. Bo glances up, and for a split-second she thinks she can see a flash of unease in the Mord-Sith’s eyes. “You’ve barely said a word since we crossed the river. It’s unnerving.” 

“I thought you’d be glad for the peace and quiet,” Bo says dryly. 

“Usually I would,” Tamsin replies, her eyes narrowing suspiciously, “but you’ve been too quiet for too long. It’s almost like you’re plotting something. Not that it would work,” she adds as an afterthought.

“I’m not plotting anything.” Bo wants to laugh and chide herself at the same time; she really _should_ have been trying to think of a plan. “I’m just…thinking. Remembering.” 

“Your friends?” Tamsin says the word like it’s a curse, or at the very least some foreign word that she doesn’t know the meaning of. She probably doesn’t.

“No.” Bo shakes her head. “Well, not really,” she corrects. Tamsin just stares at her expectantly, like she’s waiting for Bo to elaborate. Bo frowns; she doesn’t know what to make of this sudden interest. 

“What? I’m bored,” Tamsin says defensively. She crosses her arms over her chest. “Unless you want me to start torturing you for my amusement, you’ll have to entertain me some other way.” 

Bo sighs, wondering where to begin. “My friends in the Resistance…they saved me. Kenzi saved me.” She smiles at the memory; she can still clearly see the look of wonder and gratitude on Kenzi’s face when she confessed the man who’d been harassing the girl. It was the first time Bo could remember that someone hadn’t reacted to her powers with fear. “I’d been running for years.”

“From what?”

“Myself,” Bo admits. “My powers. I didn’t even know what I was until Trick explained it to me.” 

Tamsin’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “How is that even possible?”

Curling her hands into fists, Bo takes a deep breath and prepares to explain. “I was lost as a baby,” she says. “I don’t know what happened, but somehow I got separated from my real mother. I was found by a woodsman who lived in the Rang’Shada mountains with his wife. They had always wanted a child, but they’d never been able to conceive. It seemed like a blessing from the Creator herself.” Guilt pricks at her chest, and she blinks back the tears that spring to her eyes. “They had no way of knowing what I was.”

“What happened?” Tamsin asks when Bo takes too long to continue. Bo glances up at her, trying to figure out why she’s so interested, but it’s impossible to tell.

“I was raised by two parents who loved me more than life itself,” Bo says with a bitter chuckle. Even after more than a decade it still stings to think of it. “I didn’t think anything of it until I was sixteen.” Kyle’s face flashes in her mind’s eye, and she stares into the fire as though if she looks hard enough, she can burn it from her memory. “This traveling blacksmith came across our cabin, and I…convinced my parents to hire him to help with some repairs we needed.”

Tamsin rolls her eyes. “It’s always a man,” she sighs. 

“He was gorgeous,” Bo continues, a bittersweet smile touching her lips at the memory. “And kind. I’d never met anyone besides my parents, and…well, I was sixteen.”

“And you couldn’t resist riding him like a wild stallion.” 

Heat flushes Bo’s face at Tamsin’s phrasing. “I didn’t know there was any reason not to.” The words catch in Bo’s throat as a tear escapes to slide down her cheek. “As soon as it happened, I realized something was wrong. He was different; it was like he wasn’t himself anymore.” Taking a deep breath, she clears her throat. “That’s when I realized I must have done the same thing to my parents. As far back as I could remember, they had always given me everything I’d ever wanted. I just thought I was lucky.” 

“So you ran.” 

Bo nods, wiping hastily at the moisture in her eyes. “I told Kyle to go back to his life, to pretend he’d never met me. Then I told my parents to stay where they were, to love and protect each other like they always had before. I didn’t really know what I was doing, or where I was going to go, but I somehow knew they would never be able to find peace with me around.” 

Tamsin is quiet for a long moment, considering what Bo has said as she pokes at the fire with a long stick. “Have you ever thought about releasing them?” 

Bo’s gaze shoots back up to Tamsin. “That’s not possible,” she says bitingly. Trick would have told her if it was.

“There is one way to recover from a confessor’s touch.” Tamsin arches an eyebrow.

It clicks then, and Bo remembers. “Suicide is a little extreme.” Not that she hasn’t thought about it, in her darker hours. If she’d known before she met Kenzi that her death would free the people she’d confessed, she might have done it. Now she has too much to live for—a family, a home, a purpose.

“I could bring you back,” Tamsin points out. 

Bo eyes Tamsin in confusion. “Why would you do that?” She’s not entirely sure how much effort it would entail, but Tamsin doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would go even a little bit out of her way to help anyone.

Tamsin’s usual smirk returns to her lips. “You’ve given me plenty of reasons to want to kill you.”

“Well, that makes me feel a lot better about trusting you to bring me back to life,” Bo scoffs. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” 

“Suit yourself,” Tamsin says with a shrug, giving the fire another poke. 

Despite her words, when Bo settles into a vaguely comfortable sleeping position that night, Tamsin’s offer is all she can think about.


	4. Chapter 4

Over the next couple of days, something indefinable shifts between Tamsin and the confessor. Bo is keeping pace with Tamsin now, walking beside her rather than trailing behind, and though she continues to talk far more than necessary, something in her tone has changed—like she’s just trying to make conversation, rather than get under Tamsin’s skin like she so obviously was before. It’s almost like the confessor is trying to be her _friend_ , as unlikely an idea as that is. 

Tamsin glances sideways at Bo and frowns at her easy gait. She doesn’t seem to even notice the rope binding her wrists anymore; her demeanor suggests a woman taking a leisurely walk in the woods, not a prisoner being led to her doom at the hands of Darken Rahl. Her frown deepens into a scowl; if this is part of some elaborate plan to get Tamsin to lower her guard, it’s not going to work. 

Bo seems to feel Tamsin’s eyes on her and turns to meet her gaze. In an instant, her eyes widen and she tugs hard on the rope, yanking Tamsin into her body. Tamsin’s hand closes around her agiel, but before she can jab it into the confessor’s ribs, she hears someone drop to the ground behind her—in the space where she was just standing.

Whirling around, Tamsin pushes away the thought that the confessor may have just saved her life. The man facing her is already raising his weapon. Her agiel finds the sensitive flesh under his weapon arm, and his sword falls uselessly from his hand as her foot sweeps his legs out from under him. Before he even hits the ground, Tamsin presses her agiel over his heart and twists; he’s dead in a matter of seconds. 

But he’s not alone. A half-dozen or more men drop down from the trees as an arrow whizzes over Tamsin’s head, drawing her attention to a pair of archers taking aim from a distance. These men are more organized than the last group of bandits they fought, and better armed. It’s all Tamsin can do to keep hold of Bo’s lead as she pulls herself to her feet and attacks. 

With their comrades engaged in the melee, the archers can’t get a clean shot—a small blessing, given that Tamsin already has her hands full fending off swords and daggers. She feels sporadic tugs on the rope as she fights, but she assumes Bo is merely defending herself until one particularly hard yank. She spins around, eyes widening at the sight of Bo’s bound hands closed around the neck of one of the men. His eyes turn black as he falls to his feet.

“Command me, confessor,” Tamsin hears him say as she turns back to her own opponents. In the distance, the archers turn tail and run when they see him rise to his feet and raise his sword to his friends.

It doesn’t take long from there. When the dust settles, the confessed man lies dead among the bodies of his companions. Bo is still kneeling where she confessed him, her bound hands pressed to her forehead. 

Before she can over-think the impulse, Tamsin extends her free hand to Bo to help her up. Bo glances up, her eyes drifting over the proffered hand then up to Tamsin’s face. Confusion is plain on Bo’s face as she accepts the help and pulls herself to her feet; with the leather glove separating them, the confessor’s power holds no risk for Tamsin, but the gesture is still a surprise to them both.

When Bo has found her footing again, Tamsin quickly retracts her hand, curling it around her agiel instead. “Nice work,” she remarks, turning her gaze to the bodies around them. The archers who ran are long gone, but it would be a waste not to search the remaining men for gold or other useful items. Tamsin starts moving around the battlefield, nudging the bodies with her boot. “Why did you pull me out of the way?” she asks, kneeling beside one to rummage through his pockets. She glances up at Bo. “You could have let him get the drop on me.”

“They attacked first, without question,” Bo answers with a shrug. “I think I stood a better chance with you on my side.”

For a moment, Tamsin just stares, eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You are something else, confessor.” She chuckles, shakes her head. “It’s almost a shame I have to hand you over to Lord Rahl.” 

“You could always let me go,” Bo counters.

Tamsin smirks, rising to her feet before moving on to the next body. “Nothing personal, but I can’t do that.” 

What surprises and confuses Tamsin is the fact that part of her wants to.

***

They reach a fork in the road the next day. Tamsin spends a few minutes contemplating their options before leading Bo down the lower road. It takes Bo a bit to realize why Tamsin’s choice is an odd one, but once she does it’s impossible for her to resist commenting on it.

“Wouldn’t the Bardin Pass be faster?” she asks. Tamsin glances over at her in shock, and Bo raises an eyebrow. “What, did you think I’d never looked at a map before?” The route Tamsin has chosen will add more than a week to their journey.

For a brief moment, Bo thinks she can read something in Tamsin’s eyes—panic, maybe, or doubt—but it passes quickly. “The pass is closed,” Tamsin replies, looking back at the road. “Rock slide a few months back. We’ll have to take the long way.”

Bo can’t say for sure, but she’s almost certain Tamsin is lying.

***

That night as Bo sleeps, Tamsin stares into the fire, wondering what the hell she’s doing. Her task is simple enough: deliver the confessor to the People’s Palace and enjoy the inevitable rise in her already considerable status among the Mord-Sith. Perhaps Lord Rahl will even assign her a temple of her own to run. He’s been after a confessor of his very own for years—great rewards await the person who finally succeeds in obtaining one for him.

So why does it feel like none of that matters? Lord Rahl’s approval should be the only thing that matters, but suddenly Tamsin is finding that she doesn’t want it as much as she used to. There’s a decision that she has to make now, one that feels dangerous to even contemplate. Taking the long route to the People’s Palace was supposed to give her time to sort out the doubts in her mind, but so far she’s only succeeded in confusing herself more. 

If it were any other confessor, she wouldn’t be having this problem. Tamsin has met confessors, seen them writhe under the touch of her agiel and scream in agony as they breathe their last. Never before has she felt this bizarre impulse to _protect_ one. Mord-Sith protect Lord Rahl and him alone, but something about Bo makes Tamsin question the very foundations of who she is—and Bo doesn’t even seem to be aware of it. 

A twig snaps nearby, and Tamsin is on her feet in an instant. It’s not fast enough—the light from the fire illuminates a blur of red as Tamsin finds herself pinned against the trunk of a tree. An agiel hovers under her jaw. Tamsin’s eyes widen; her attacker is familiar, and not just because of the red leather armor or the tight braid her hair is pulled back into—the lines on this woman’s face are etched into Tamsin’s memory. 

“Acacia?”

The hard, stern visage melts into a smirk as Acacia steps back, slipping her agiel back into the sheath at her hip. “I know you meant Mistress.” 

A thousand thoughts race through Tamsin’s mind at the sight of the older woman. After a moment of fumbling, she settles on one. “How did you find me?” She tries hard not to wince at how guilty the words make her sound. She wasn’t running—at least, not yet. 

Acacia arches an eyebrow. “I was on a mission in Ashton when I overheard a pair of archers talking about some big dust-up they barely got away from.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “From what they were saying, I assume they were referring to you and your…companion.” Her eyes drift over to Bo. “Funny, she doesn’t look like a confessor.” 

Tamsin’s heart pounds in her chest as she follows Acacia’s gaze. Bo is still sleeping peacefully, her chest pushing out against the ropes that bind her to the tree as she takes soft, even breaths. “Trust me, looks can be deceiving,” Tamsin murmurs. 

“I want to trust you, Tamsin,” Acacia says, drawing Tamsin’s attention back to her. Her smirk is gone, replaced by a look that’s deadly serious. “I just don’t understand why you’re taking your little prize on a walking tour of D’Hara.”

“There’s a pocket of the Resistance camped out near the pass,” Tamsin lies with a shrug. “I couldn’t take them on myself, especially not with a prisoner in tow.” 

“You still think you can lie to me,” Acacia says with a laugh. “I thought I broke you of that years ago.” 

“I—”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re doing,” Acacia says, cutting Tamsin off. Her expression is softer than before, a little more sympathetic. “And I don’t want to know.” She steps in close, speaking slowly and carefully. “Doubt can happen to the best of us. It’s not the end of the world. You haven’t done anything wrong yet.”

Tamsin wants to argue, but Acacia knows her too well. Her brow furrows as she turns her gaze to the ground. “What do you want me to do?” she asks quietly.

“The rest of my quad is camped about an hour west of here.” Acacia clamps a gloved hand under Tamsin’s chin, forcing her to look up. “We should make it to the temple at Jandralyn by midday tomorrow.” She tilts her head meaningfully. “If by some happy accident you end up meeting us there with your prisoner, I can’t imagine there would be anything but good news to report to Lord Rahl.” 

Swallowing hard, Tamsin nods her head. 

Acacia’s fingers dig into Tamsin’s jaw as she leans closer. “If you don’t show up by nightfall, I’ll have no choice but to come after you,” she warns. “If you don’t deliver the confessor, I will.” 

Tamsin nods again, her pulse rushing in her ears. “Yes, Mistress.” 

“Good girl.” A tight smile touches Acacia’s lips as she releases Tamsin’s chin, patting her on the cheek before she steps away. She disappears into the trees without another word.

***

It takes all of Bo’s focus and concentration to keep her breathing even and steady. Her heart is pounding so hard she’s surprised the Mord-Sith don’t hear it, but they seem to be too intent on their conversation to pay attention to whether or not she’s awake. When she finally hears Tamsin sink back onto the ground as the other woman’s footsteps fade into the night, Bo inwardly breathes a sigh of relief. Now she just has to make sense of what she’s just overheard. 


	5. Chapter 5

Even if Bo hadn’t been awake last night, it’s all too easy to sense the change in Tamsin today. She’s gotten more comfortable with Bo in the past few days, and while she’s far from a sparkling conversationalist, she’s at least been showing signs of actually listening when Bo speaks. If circumstances were different, Bo thinks, they might even become friends—if Mord-Sith believed in that sort of thing. 

Today, though, Tamsin is more tense than ever. She’s barely said two words to Bo since they set out this morning, let alone made any sort of eye contact. Her agiel has been clutched in her free hand for hours, fingers flexing periodically around it as though it’s a lifeline more than a weapon. Bo can feel Tamsin peering over at her occasionally, but every time she tries to catch the Mord-Sith’s gaze it’s already left her. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Bo says after a couple of hours of walking in silence. Her time is running out—if she doesn’t escape or convince Tamsin to let her go soon, she’ll spend the rest of her—probably short—life in the clutches of Darken Rahl.

“Yeah, I really do,” Tamsin replies, without taking her eyes off of the path.

“I heard you talking to your friend last night,” Bo tries again.

Tamsin scoffs. “Mord-Sith don’t have friends.” 

“Your sister, then.” Bo rolls her eyes. Tamsin knows who she was talking about; why does she have to be so difficult? Taking a breath, Bo softens her tone. “I know what it’s like, giving up everything you’ve ever known. Thinking you’re nothing but a monster. But you can be more than that.” 

All at once Tamsin whirls on her, eyes flashing. “I’m proud of what I am.”

“A killer?” Bo ripostes, refusing to back down. “Torturing people into submission to serve Darken Rahl’s twisted purposes?” 

Tamsin shrugs, smirking. “We all have our strengths.” 

Bo shakes her head gently, catching Tamsin’s gaze and holding it. “There is more to you than death and pain.”

Her conviction catches Tamsin off-guard; pale eyes cloud with uncertainty for a moment before settling back into their clear, unreadable state. “How would you know?”

The impulse to step closer, to assure Tamsin through touch, is one that Bo has trouble fighting. The time she’s spent with her friends, learning not to fear her own touch, has been invaluable to her, but it’s also left her with some habits that most might find off-putting; a confessor’s touch, power or no, is never something that’s taken lightly. Besides, her hands are bound; the best she can do is put all of her assurance in her voice, and hope that it’s enough. “I may not have known you for that long, but I can see that you’re not some soulless monster. You can be good. It’s your choice.”

Tamsin’s eyebrows knit tightly together, and Bo can see hints of turmoil shining through the cracks in her hardened expression. After a beat, Tamsin speaks through gritted teeth. “If I make that choice, I’m as good as dead.” 

“If you don’t, will you really be living?”

Without speaking, Tamsin scowls and turns back to the path, yanking harder than necessary on the rope. A soft smile touches Bo’s lips as she follows; whether she gets out of this or not, she’s gotten through to Tamsin at least a little bit. It’s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

***

Midday passes, and there is no temple in sight. Bo’s been trying to keep track of the turns and paths they’ve taken, but her knowledge of D’Haran geography is scattered and incomplete. There’s only so much Trick can teach her in the time they’re given between training and missions. Still, Bo has seen Mord-Sith temples before; they’re tall and imposing, visible from leagues away. It appears that Tamsin has made her choice.

“You’re not taking me to Jandralyn,” Bo says, her breath freezing in her lungs as she waits for confirmation. 

Tamsin stops walking and looks down at the agiel in her hand as though it might bite her. Her eyes shut tight as she clenches her jaw. “No,” she says softly, after a long pause. 

The cold tightness that seized Bo’s chest melts into a warm swell of feeling, a mixture of relief and gratitude and, strangely, pride—for the strength Tamsin is showing in standing up to everything she’s ever known, though Tamsin surely sees it as weakness. A hundred different words rise up in Bo’s throat, but she swallows them back. She’s still at the Mord-Sith’s mercy, and it would be all too easy for Tamsin to change her mind. “In that case,” she begins slowly, “do you think we could ditch the ropes?” 

Tamsin’s eyes slide open, fixing on Bo’s outstretched hands. After a long moment of deliberation, she closes the distance between them. The knots come undone easily for Tamsin, and Bo lets out a sigh as the rope falls away to the ground. The skin of her wrists is raw and red, and Bo rubs gingerly at them to soothe the sting. Tamsin’s gaze remains locked on Bo’s hands as she steps back, poised to run. 

Without thinking, Bo reaches for Tamsin’s arm, keeping her from going too far. Tamsin’s bicep is tight and stiff under her palm, and when her eyes shoot up to meet Bo’s, there’s a tiny spark of fear. Bo smiles reassuringly, pressing her other palm to the side of Tamsin’s face, the only skin not covered by red leather. Tamsin flinches, but doesn’t move away. Her skin is warm and soft, so unlike the brittle attitude she likes to project. “Thank you,” Bo says softly. 

Seconds pass in silence. For once Tamsin doesn’t seem to have a caustic quip ready on her tongue. Finally she pulls away, reaching down to pull her hunting knife from her boot. “You’ll need a weapon,” she says, extending it handle-first. 

Bo takes it with a smile, tucking it into her own boot. It’s not the sword she usually prefers, but Dyson and Hale have made sure that she’s trained in a wide variety of weapons. Straightening, Bo looks at the forest around them, then back at Tamsin. “So, where are we going?”

“We?” Tamsin frowns. “I thought you’d want to get as far away from me as possible.”

Arching an eyebrow, Bo steps closer. “You’ve had my back so far. I think I’ve got a better chance of surviving if I stick with you.”

For a moment Tamsin just stares at her in disbelief. She turns to survey the area around them, finally settling on south as a likely direction. “There’s a series of caves about a day’s journey away,” she explains as she sets out walking again. “They’re a maze if you don’t know them—almost impossible to navigate.”

“Won’t we get lost?” Bo asks, following regardless.

Tamsin glances over at her, a ghost of her usual smirk returning to her lips. “I know them.”

***

They don’t make it very far before their path is blocked by two quads of mounted Mord-Sith, Acacia among them. To Tamsin’s great irritation, she recognizes the woman leading them.

“Evony,” Tamsin sneers, drawing her agiel and stepping in front of Bo. 

“That’s Mistress to you,” Evony bites back, dropping down from her horse. Her eyes glitter with disdain. “And you’re hardly in a position to take that tone with me.”

Tamsin smirks. “Funny, you didn’t seem to take issue with my tone when I had you writhing naked in chains.” She lets Evony seethe as she turns her gaze to Acacia. “I thought we had until nightfall.” 

Before Acacia can answer, Evony cuts her off. “We? What, are you best friends now?” Her lip curls in distaste as she rakes her eyes over what she can see of Bo. “I’ve always known you to keep your pets on a leash.” 

“You’d know better than most,” Tamsin shoots back, arching an eyebrow. 

Rage flashes in Evony’s eyes, and Acacia steps forward, calm and intent. ”Tamsin, just give us the confessor.” 

Pain pulses through Tamsin’s hand and up her arm as she grips her agiel tighter; it both soothes and strengthens her, steels her for the fight to come. “I can’t do that.” The words “I’m sorry” are burned from a child’s throat long before she ever earns the title of Mord-Sith, but Tamsin lets them shine through in her eyes, hopes that Acacia can see them. 

“It’s not too late for you,” Acacia urges. “Lord Rahl will want you punished for this, but it will only make you stronger.”

Before Tamsin can react, Evony whirls on Acacia, jamming her agiel into the older woman’s chest and giving it a violent twist. Acacia’s body drops to the ground as Evony turns back around. “Slit her throat,” she directs over her shoulder. “She’s clearly not worthy of being Mord-Sith.” 

Tamsin stares in horror as one of the other Mord-Sith kneels by Acacia’s head, drawing her hunting knife cleanly across the dead woman’s throat. The Breath of Life will be no use here, not anymore. Hatred rises in Tamsin’s throat like bile. 

“Look what you did,” Evony says, a cruel smile playing at her lips as she advances with agiel drawn. “I hope the confessor bitch is worth it.” 

Her first blow comes down hard, but Tamsin catches it with her own weapon, lashing out with her foot to kick Evony to the ground. 

“Her name is Bo.”

***

Gripping the knife Tamsin gave her, Bo watches as the fight begins in earnest. It’s her and Tamsin against seven Mord-Sith; the odds certainly don’t look good. The fact that they know she’s a confessor seems to be an advantage, at least. The ones who approach her seem hesitant to get too close, lunging in quickly with their agiels then jumping back just as quickly to avoid her touch.

She manages to duck under the guard of one, stabbing her knife into the woman’s chest just above her corset. As she’s sliding her blade free, another Mord-Sith comes up behind her, hoping to catch her off-guard. It almost works, but Bo whirls around just in time to stretch out her free hand, and her opponent ducks away reflexively. It gives Bo enough time to reclaim her knife and block the swing of another’s agiel.

Out of the corner of her eye, Bo can see Tamsin holding her own spectacularly. Two more bodies already litter the ground, and she seems well on her way to adding a third. That’s all Bo is able to glimpse before she’s drawn back into her own fight. She forces her blade through the hard leather corset of one Mord-Sith, sinking it into the woman’s gut, but she’s knocked away by the other before she can pull it back out. 

With no other weapon, Bo is left with only one choice. She launches herself at her other opponent, throwing her off balance and giving her the opportunity to reach up and grasp the woman’s jaw. A split-second of skin-to-skin contact is all she needs; her power beats against the underside of her skin, and all she has to do is let go. The Mord-Sith’s eyes turn black as she sinks to her knees.

“Mistress,” the Mord-Sith gasps as Bo follows her to the ground, “how may I serve you?”

Bo’s head is foggy, her muscles limp with fatigue, but she gathers enough energy to speak. “Help Tamsin,” she forces out. She drops her head, taking deep breaths to try to recover her strength; her trembling arm is the only thing keeping her from falling on her face. 

When she’s able to look up again, Bo sees Tamsin and the confessed Mord-Sith taking out one of two remaining enemies. Of greater interest is the leader, Evony, who seems to have noticed that agiels aren’t having as much impact on Tamsin as she’d like; she’s climbing back to her feet, hunting knife in hand. 

It’s happening too quickly. Tamsin doesn’t see the knife, doesn’t see Evony; she’s momentarily distracted as the confessed woman falls to the ground, her body racked with spasms as the pain of confession slowly claims her life. At the same time, one of the women Bo thought was dead is stirring, her gaze fixed on Tamsin. Bo can see what will happen if she doesn’t intervene: one of the remaining Mord-Sith will claim Tamsin’s life. 

She calls Tamsin’s name, but there’s too much going on. The only thing Bo can think to do is throw herself at the closer enemy. She grunts as Evony’s knife slips between her ribs.


	6. Chapter 6

Tamsin hears Bo call her name, but she’s only able to glance her way before she’s accosted by the Mord-Sith she thought she dispatched earlier with a blow to the head. “Guess I didn’t hit you hard enough,” she says with a feral grin. Within moments, she has the woman’s head between her hands, and with a violent twist, her neck snaps and she crumples to the ground. 

Whirling around, Tamsin is met with Evony’s snarling face. She’s forgone her agiel, swinging her knife in tight, controlled arcs that Tamsin easily manages to dodge or block with her agiel. Evony has always been formidable in a fight, but she’s no match for Tamsin. Soon Evony is slammed up against the trunk of a tree, one of Tamsin’s hands holding her knife hand up above her head while the other holds an agiel over her heart. She’s lost, and she knows it; Tamsin can see it in her eyes. 

She hasn’t given up yet, though; her gaze flickers over Tamsin’s shoulder. “Your little pet doesn’t look so good,” Evony says with a smirk. 

Tamsin turns her head to see Bo curled up on the ground, her hands bloody where they clutch at the side of her chest. The distraction causes her grip to loosen enough for Evony to jerk free. She must accept that she’s outmatched, though, because rather than make another attempt at killing Tamsin, she heads for her horse, mounting in one smooth motion. For a moment, Tamsin is torn between taking another horse and pursuing Evony, or doing what she can to help Bo.

In the end, it’s not much of a choice. She drops to her knees at Bo’s side, pushing at her shoulder and hip to lay her flat on her back. There’s a lot of blood—too much.

“Just hold on,” Tamsin says gruffly, shoving Bo’s hands aside to press against the wound. “You’ll be fine.” 

Bo’s cough is a wet, raspy thing, spattering her lips with blood. “No I won’t,” she says, wincing at the effort it takes to breathe. 

“I’ve seen more injuries than you,” Tamsin retorts stubbornly, pressing harder. “Caused most of them, actually.” 

Her joke earns a weak, tremulous smile before Bo’s eyes slam shut. Her body shakes with the violent, stilted breaths she’s trying to take. “I’m dying,” she says calmly, when the pain ebbs enough for her to speak. Her gaze locks onto Tamsin’s, and instead of resignation, there’s hope in her warm brown eyes. “But you can bring me back.”

It’s a solid plan, but it requires Tamsin to sit back and watch Bo die; for some reason, the thought makes something seize in her chest. “I thought you didn’t trust me to do that,” Tamsin points out, smirking to cover her panic. 

Bo’s hand moves jerkily up to cover Tamsin’s where they’re pressed to her side. She tries to squeeze, but Tamsin barely feels any pressure at all—she’s losing strength, fast. “I trust you,” she murmurs, hardly more than a whisper. 

Tamsin’s throat swells shut as she watches Bo’s eyes flutter closed. She’s never felt such a frantic, helpless feeling before. Were she not Mord-Sith, she would call it fear—but Mord-Sith fear nothing. Bo’s breathing grows weaker, until Tamsin can only just feel the confessor’s chest expanding against her palm. Pulling her hands away from the wound, she yanks a glove off with her teeth, pressing bare fingers to the side of Bo’s throat. 

When Bo’s pulse stills beneath her touch, Tamsin swallows hard, summoning forth the power she knows is in her. She leans forward, her lips hovering over Bo’s as she opens her mouth and breathes life back into her. The handful of seconds spent staring down at Bo’s lifeless face feel like the longest of Tamsin’s life. 

Then Bo sucks in a sharp breath, and her eyes pop open. Relief floods Tamsin’s chest, and before she can consciously think about what she’s doing, she’s ducking down to close the remaining distance between them. Bo is stunned at first, frozen in place, but as the kiss goes on her mouth gradually starts to move against Tamsin’s, caught up in the passion of the moment. Bo’s hands are sticky where they cup the sides of Tamsin’s face, and her lips taste of blood, metallic and rich.

***

The kiss goes on for ages, and ends far too soon. Bo is shocked and panting when Tamsin jerks away with a gasp, falling back on her heels with wide eyes as though she can’t quite believe what she’s just done. Lifting a hand to her side, Bo traces the gaping slash in her leather vest. The skin beneath is smooth and unbroken, and the deep, throbbing pain in her chest is no more than a memory. All that remains of her wound is the taste of blood in her mouth, the red smears on Tamsin’s cheeks and lips.

Silence stretches between them, awkward and tense, until Tamsin abruptly pushes herself to her feet. Bo sits up slowly, watching as Tamsin methodically works her way around the battlefield, checking the bodies for anything of use and ensuring that they’re all truly dead. 

It’s strange, Bo thinks, to be sitting here alive and breathing when she can still feel the steel of Evony’s blade in her flesh. Stranger still to know that she was dead, that her soul was on its way to the Underworld before Tamsin called it back. She remembers darkness, and vague flashes of green light, then waking up to find Tamsin hovering above her, concern and fear shining bright in turquoise eyes. 

She can’t even begin to process the kiss right now. It’s too confusing, too uncertain, too dangerous—definitely a matter for later contemplation. Still, when she licks her lips to moisten them, Bo is sure that the taste of Tamsin is far stronger than that of the blood that still lingers. 

“Check the horses,” Tamsin calls over her shoulder, avoiding Bo’s eyes. “They had to have left in a hurry to catch up to us this fast, but the saddlebags are usually kept pretty well stocked.”

Grateful for something else to focus on, Bo rises to her feet and walks over to the horses. They’re well trained animals not to have scattered when the fighting started; even now they wait, patient and alert. Bo approaches them carefully, giving each a soothing pat on the shoulder before rummaging through the saddlebags. She ends up with a decent amount of dry rations and a collection of water skins, as well as a pile of thin wool blankets. 

“No gold,” Bo comments as she empties the last of the saddlebags. 

Tamsin does look at her then, an eyebrow raised as she moves on to the last body. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met who might be crazy enough to say no to a Mord-Sith,” she says, kneeling at the dead woman’s side. “Anything we might need, we demand as tribute to Lord Rahl. We have no need for gold.”

“That’s convenient,” Bo replies sardonically. She frowns when she sees that Tamsin is making no move to search the final body. Tamsin’s eyes are fixed on the dead woman’s face, and as Bo steps closer, she recognizes her as the one Evony killed—the one she heard Tamsin talking to last night. “She was important to you, wasn’t she?”

Her words nudge Tamsin into action, and the Mord-Sith moves stiffly to retrieve the hunting knife tucked into Acacia’s boot. “She trained me,” Tamsin says simply, turning the knife over in her hands. It’s different from the one she gave Bo; the handle is etched with a simple design, a vine winding its way around the wood. It’s almost delicate, in a way that doesn’t seem to fit with the idea of a hardened, ruthless Mord-Sith—but Bo is learning, the more time she spends with Tamsin, that the Mord-Sith are far more complex than the stories she’s been told. 

“She obviously cared for you,” Bo offers feebly. She has no idea how to even start comforting Tamsin about this. 

Tamsin is silent and still for a long moment before she slides the knife into her boot and stands. “Caring is a liability,” she says brusquely. She brushes past Bo without a glance, setting to work packing the supplies Bo has collected into two sets of saddlebags. “I assume you can ride.”

It’s clear that Bo is not going to get Tamsin to open up, at least not now. She rolls her eyes and moves to lend a hand with the saddlebags. “Of course I can.”


	7. Chapter 7

“We’ll have to stop for the night.”

Tamsin’s voice startles Bo out of her thoughts. They’ve ridden for the last several hours in silence, leaving Bo with ample time to think about all that’s happened, and what may happen next. Bo shakes her head to clear it. 

“It’s getting dark,” Tamsin continues, sounding not at all pleased about it. “The horses would be lucky not to break something, and I doubt we’d fare much better.”

Bo is all too eager to dismount. She’s ridden before, but it’s been a while; her body is anything but used to it. She’ll be grateful for a nice, steady patch of ground to sit on. 

“What’s going to happen to the horses we left behind?” Bo asks as they go about tending to the horses. 

“They’re highly trained,” Tamsin replies without looking up, “and they weren’t very far from the temple. They know their way home.” She finishes tying off her horse, then heads over to sit against a nearby tree trunk with a pouch of dry rations and a water skin. “Besides, they won’t be unattended for long,” she adds, taking a long swig of water. “Evony will be back with reinforcements.”

Finishing with her own horse, Bo follows suit, sitting down near Tamsin. Spirits, it feels good to relax. “Should we be worried?”

“Hardly,” Tamsin scoffs, taking a bite of hard cheese. “She’ll have to go back to the temple, and it’ll take her some time to come up with a new plan. She was lucky to escape with her life and she knows it.”

Bo bites off a piece of dried meat, chewing thoughtfully. The whole thing is a blur—she remembers lurching toward Evony, feeling the dagger pierce her chest, then feeling as though she was underwater; she couldn’t hear anything but the rush of blood in her ears, or see anything beyond the darkness that spotted her vision. The next clear memory she has is of Tamsin rolling her onto her back. “How _did_ she escape?”

Tamsin chews her food slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground. When she speaks, her answer is vague and tense. “I had to make a choice.”

A smile touches Bo’s lips as she finishes the thought Tamsin can’t seem to voice. “And you chose me.” _Again._

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Tamsin says gruffly, shooting a wary glance toward Bo. “I had already gone against my sisters and my orders. I wasn’t going to make that sacrifice meaningless by letting you die.”

The look in Tamsin’s eyes is somewhere between a warning and a plea. Bo knows she shouldn’t push any further, but she has to know. “And the kiss?”

There’s a long pause as Tamsin looks out into the fading light. “The kiss,” she repeats, chuckling softly to herself. When she turns back to Bo, her lips are curled into a seductive smirk. “What can I say? A good fight always gets me worked up.” 

“So that’s all it was,” Bo says, narrowing her eyes. “You were turned on, and I was there?” 

“That’s it,” Tamsin confirms with a shrug. Packing away the rest of her food, she pushes to her feet, her hand dropping briefly to Bo’s shoulder as she makes her way back to the horses. “Don’t worry, confessor, I’m not going to jump you in your sleep. I have no interest in dying any time soon.”

Bo watches contemplatively as Tamsin lays out a couple of blankets for a makeshift bedroll. She wonders what it means that it’s getting easier to tell when Tamsin is lying—and what it means that she would lie about this.

***

They reach the edge of a valley around mid-morning. The path they’ve been following leads down to a small town, and the mountains stretch up toward the sky to their right. In the distance, Tamsin sees a familiar opening in the rock.

“Timberfalls,” Tamsin says, her voice neutral. Her eyes linger on the distant cottages; she hasn’t been back here in a lifetime—several, really, but she never did keep count. It’s been ages since she’s even thought about it. She can feel Bo’s eyes boring into her—can practically hear the questions ready to spill from her lips. In an attempt to head them off, she quickly dismounts, collecting what gear she can and shoving it into her pack. “We can leave the horses here. Someone from the town will find them.”

“If we went into town, we could sell them,” Bo points out, swinging down from her own horse. “We are a little short on coin.”

“I don’t need coin, remember?” Tamsin replies. “Besides, those people wouldn’t take kindly to a Mord-Sith coming to town, even if it was just to trade.” 

“And why is that?” 

Tamsin clenches her jaw, trying to fight the rising tide of memories. She gives Bo a hard look, one eyebrow arched. “Why do you think?” 

That seems to shut Bo up, at least for the time being. Tamsin can’t help but scowl as they make their way up to the cave opening. She can hear the wheels turning in Bo’s head; she knows the questions have only just begun.

***

“I can see how someone could get lost in here,” Bo says, after hours of twists and turns. She’s not entirely convinced that they’re _not_ lost, but Tamsin has been leading the way with a confidence that she’s pretty sure can’t be faked. The air inside the caves is frigid, cooled by fresh water running in rivulets down the walls and in streams etched into the floor. They have no torch, but the glittermoss growing in abundance casts a faint green glow over everything, enough that they’re at least not stumbling in the dark.

“Told you it was a maze,” Tamsin replies, without looking back.

They walk for another few minutes before Bo’s curiosity becomes overwhelming. “So how do you know these caves so well?”

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t know, does it?” Bo retorts, stopping to cross her arms over her chest. 

Tamsin comes to a halt, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Why do you care?”

“You brought me back from the dead.” Bo softens her voice, reaching out to rest a tentative hand on Tamsin’s arm. When Tamsin turns, Bo gives her an encouraging smile. “I’d like to think that makes us friends.”

With a frown, Tamsin pulls her arm back, setting off further into the cave. “I told you before, Mord-Sith don’t have friends.”

“They also don’t rescue confessors from Darken Rahl,” Bo calls after her, smiling smugly when Tamsin’s steps falter. 

“Why is this so important to you?” Tamsin huffs, closing her hand around her agiel as she continues walking.

“I’m curious,” Bo replies, jogging a little to catch up. “Besides, I told you my life story.”

Tamsin shakes her head, laughing dryly. “You seem to be under the impression that you telling me things obligates me to return the favor. I never asked.” 

“Well, I’m asking,” Bo shoots back.

“But you’re not really _listening_.” Irritation and hostility grow more and more apparent in Tamsin’s voice. “Maybe I just don’t want to talk about it.” 

After some consideration, Bo lets it go—for now. She may not get her answers now, but she’s pretty sure she will get them.

***

“You lived in that town, didn’t you?” Bo asks, when they’ve found a dry place to stop for the night. “That’s where they took you from.”

Tamsin closes her eyes, searching inwardly for her last reserves of patience. Maybe if she answers this one question, Bo will let it go. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

And maybe not. It was probably too much to hope for.

It’s not that she’s afraid to talk about it, or afraid that Bo will judge her—Mord-Sith fear nothing, after all—but Bo will no doubt read too much into it, and assume all sorts of things about Tamsin’s _feelings_. Mord-Sith don’t indulge themselves in frivolous emotions, let alone share them with virtual strangers. 

Still, there has been a heavy weight on her chest since looking down at the town she used to call home. It’s possible that talking about it might ease that mysterious pressure. If nothing else, it will get Bo to stop hounding her about it.

“What do you know about how Mord-Sith are recruited?” Tamsin asks, sagging against the wall behind her with a resigned sigh. 

“Just the basics,” Bo answers. “They’re taken as children, tortured until they break. Trick told me they target the kindest, gentlest girls to take.” 

Tamsin lets out a bitter laugh. “That’s a nice fairy tale,” she says dryly.

“It’s not true?”

“Oh, it’s true,” Tamsin admits. “Ideally, at least. But kind, gentle girls aren’t always easy to find, especially when parents know we’ll be coming for them. Most of the time we can’t afford to be picky. Lord Rahl doesn’t take kindly to excuses.” 

“So you take whoever you can find.” 

“Pretty much.” Tamsin pauses, wondering where to start. “The good little girls still end up making the best Mord-Sith. The spoiled brats and the ones with vicious tempers usually die or go mad before they break. It’s hard to teach obedience to a kid who doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

“Then why bother taking them?” Bo asks. She’s doing a good job of sounding detached, Tamsin thinks; she expected more righteous indignation, but Bo’s voice holds only curiosity.

“It’s good practice,” Tamsin says with a shrug. She meets Bo’s eyes and smirks. “And sometimes we get lucky.” 

“Something tells me you were one of those kids with a temper.” 

“With good reason.” Tamsin’s gaze drifts over the walls; the green glow of glittermoss is more familiar to her than the walls of her parents’ cottage. “But yes, I was an angry child. I probably would have died like the rest, too stubborn to break, if it hadn’t been for—” She stops, her voice catching in her throat.

“For what?” Bo asks gently, laying a hand on Tamsin’s arm. Despite the frigid air, Bo’s hand is warm and somehow soothing.

“Acacia,” Tamsin replies. The memory of Acacia’s lifeless body falling to the ground flashes through her mind, and she closes her eyes to will it away. “She offered me the one thing that would get me to do whatever she wanted.” 

“What was that?”

A grim smile spreads on Tamsin’s lips. “The opportunity to kill my father.” 

Bo is quiet, and Tamsin wonders if she’s finally managed to render the confessor speechless. Who knew patricide would be her breaking point? After a moment, though, Bo finds her voice. “He must have been pretty horrible.” 

“That’s an understatement.” These caves were her only refuge back then; she would often spend days at a time exploring their twists and turns. The punishment was always severe when she returned, but it was worth it to know that there was a place she could go that he couldn’t follow. Tamsin feels a familiar shadow of rage rise in her chest at the memories, but they no longer have any hold over her—not since she replaced them with the image of his wretched face screwed up in agony as he took his dying breaths. “What the Mord-Sith did had a purpose. They made me strong. There was no point to his brutality—he was weak, nothing but a coward too afraid to raise his hand to anyone but his wife and child.”

“I’m sorry.” Bo’s hand is still resting on Tamsin’s arm, thumb stroking idly back and forth. It makes Tamsin itch in an odd, not entirely unpleasant way. 

“Don’t be.” Tamsin pulls out her agiel with her free hand, looks down at it appreciatively as pain radiates up her arm. “I made sure he paid for his crimes.” 

“What happened to your mother?”

Tamsin shrugs. “Don’t know. Don’t care.” The woman had been as weak as her husband, never lifting a finger when he started taking his anger out on a defenseless child. “The Mord-Sith were my family, far more than my parents ever were. They gave me a purpose, and strength.” 

“And you gave it all up to help me,” Bo says softly, giving voice to the guilt gnawing at Tamsin’s chest. 

“Some repayment,” Tamsin says bitterly. She closes her other hand around the agiel, letting its power pulse through both arms. It’s far from sufficient penance, but it’s a beginning. 

Bo lets out a small gasp, recoiling as she feels Tamsin’s muscles twitch from the pain of the agiel. Returning her hand to Tamsin’s arm, she slides her fingers down to tug at her wrist, urging Tamsin’s hand away from the agiel to lace with her own. “For what it’s worth,” she murmurs, “I’m thankful you did.” 

Mord-Sith don’t hold hands—especially not with confessors. The gesture is bizarre enough that Tamsin’s eyes shoot up reflexively to meet Bo’s, but Bo isn’t looking at her eyes. Her gaze is fixed lower, on Tamsin’s lips, and the frigid air of the caves suddenly feels thick and cloying. Tamsin’s eyes drift down to Bo’s mouth almost of their own accord, and the want that swells in her throat is enough to make breathing a near-impossibility. It would be easy to lean forward and—

And do what? Kissing Bo once was absurd enough, but she’d at least had the excuse of adrenaline from the fight. She can’t bed a confessor without dying, and kissing really has no point beyond pleasures of the flesh, not for Mord-Sith. Shaking her head, Tamsin draws back, gripping her agiel tighter in an attempt to force this strange desire from her blood. 

“We should get some rest,” Tamsin says, pulling her hand free from Bo’s. It’s too dark to be sure, but she thinks she sees a flash of disappointment flicker across Bo’s face.


	8. Chapter 8

From the moment she and Kenzi stumbled through the doors three years ago, the Dal Riata has been the closest thing to home that Bo has known. Its rustic wood walls and thatched roof are a welcome sight indeed, especially after a week and a half of sleeping on the ground. The thought of the long, hot bath and soft bed that await her makes it difficult for Bo to resist the urge to break into a run as soon as the tavern comes into view. 

Out in front of the building is a stranger sight: her slight young friend is wielding an ax, trying with little success to chop logs into smaller pieces of firewood. Piles of wood in an odd variety of shapes and sizes litter the ground at her feet. As Bo approaches, Kenzi’s head snaps up, and she adjusts her grip on the weapon in preparation for a fight. When her eyes land on Bo, she all but tosses the ax away and sets off running.

“Bo-Bo!” Kenzi shrieks, barreling toward Bo at full speed. She nearly knocks Bo and Tamsin both over with the force of the impact, clinging tight to Bo’s neck. “Thank the spirits you’re back. They were making me chop firewood. _Me_!”

Bo holds onto Kenzi’s waist just as tightly, chuckling into her friend’s hair. “I missed you too, Kenz.” 

Kenzi pulls back and smacks Bo on the shoulder, hard. “Where have you been? Everyone’s been going crazy trying to find you, and here you come just waltzing back like nothing happened.” 

“It’s a long story,” Bo says, glancing back at Tamsin.

“I can see that.” Kenzi stiffens in Bo’s arms, as if just noticing the Mord-Sith’s presence. She grabs Bo’s arm and starts to back away. “Why don’t we, uh, get Dyson and—”

“No need.” Dyson’s voice startles Bo, but not as much as the sword he has raised to Tamsin’s throat. She didn’t even hear him approach; he’s always been good at sneaking up on people. “You’ve got nerve showing your face here, Mord-Sith.” 

Tamsin looks far from worried, though her hand is hovering close to her agiel. The last thing Bo wants here is a fight; she shrugs off Kenzi’s hands, stepping up between the two and pushing away Dyson’s sword arm. 

“Don’t, Dyson,” she says calmly. “She’s not a threat. I promise.” 

Behind her, Tamsin scoffs, and Bo turns to shoot her a look. It seems to do the job; Tamsin crosses her arms over her chest, rolling her eyes. She’s not happy about it, but she’s willing to play nice. 

Dyson slips a hand around Bo’s arm, tugging her a few paces away. Kenzi follows behind, her eyes fixed on Tamsin all the while. “Bo, why is she here?” Dyson asks in a low voice, glancing nervously at the Mord-Sith. 

“It’s complicated,” Bo says. “I’d rather only explain it once. Where are the others?”

“Trick’s inside with his books,” Dyson replies, “and Hale took Lauren out to collect some herbs down by the stream.”

Bo’s eyebrows shoot up. “She needs an escort now?” 

“We’ve been more careful since you were taken,” Dyson explains. “Lauren can handle herself, but if there were another attack…”

“Can’t be too safe,” Kenzi offers. 

“Makes sense,” Bo says with a sigh. “Well, we should head inside and talk to Trick, at least. We can catch Lauren and Hale up when they get back.” 

Before Bo can do anything else, Dyson pulls her into a hug. “I’m glad you’re back safe,” he murmurs into her hair. 

Smiling, Bo wraps her arms around him and soaks in the comfort of his embrace. “Glad to be back.” Things are still awkward between them sometimes, the product of an ill-fated infatuation the first year after they met, but none of that matters now. He’s one of her best friends—her family, really—and there were a few times she genuinely feared she’d never see him again. 

“I see you called off your guard dog,” Tamsin comments dryly as Bo approaches again. 

Bo rolls her eyes, chuckling. “He’s pretty protective,” she admits, glancing back to see Dyson and Kenzi still standing in the same place, their eyes fixed warily on her and Tamsin. “It’s usually a good thing.” 

Tamsin smirks. “It’s good to be on your guard—not as good to be so damn obvious about it.” 

“Maybe you can give him some pointers,” Bo teases, smiling when Tamsin just arches an eyebrow. “We’re about to head inside, catch everyone up on…well, everything.” 

Rather than grumble as Bo expects, Tamsin shifts restlessly with an implacable look on her face. “Well, you’re home all safe and sound,” she says, taking a hesitant step backward. “I should be on my way.”

“On your way?” Bo asks, frowning in confusion. “Aren’t you coming inside?” 

For a second, it looks like she’s caught Tamsin off guard; she covers her surprise with a wry laugh. “I doubt your little friends are eager to have a Mord-Sith at their table,” she says with a shrug. Her brow tightens. “Besides, no one leaves Lord Rahl’s service alive—ever. He’s going to send people after me. It’s far safer for you not to be anywhere near me.”

Panic swells in Bo’s chest; she never even considered the possibility that Tamsin wouldn’t stay. “If it’s so dangerous, why didn’t you leave before now?” she counters, trying to sound calm. 

“I…had to make sure you got back safe,” Tamsin says awkwardly, her voice quiet. 

Bo’s pulse races under her skin as she meets Tamsin’s eyes. They haven’t talked any more about the kiss, or the handful of times since then that Bo has been sure they both wanted to do it again. The tension between them has developed into something achingly familiar to Bo; she’s felt it before, and nothing has ever come of it but broken hearts. Nothing else could, she knows, because her powers prevent her from ever indulging in such a simple thing. The knowledge never seems to be enough to stop her from venturing down that dead-end road, however. Maybe it would be kinder to let Tamsin leave, but Bo can’t seem to shut off the part of her that’s desperate to make her stay. 

The sound of a throat clearing shatters the moment, and Bo looks away from Tamsin. Despite all the turmoil of her thoughts, Bo can’t help but smile at the sight of Trick.

“Before anyone goes anywhere,” Trick says, looking up at both of them, “I think we all have some catching up to do.”

***

“Only you could woo a Mord-Sith away from Darken Rahl,” Kenzi says, shaking her head and flashing Bo an impressed smile.

Tamsin bristles at the blunt statement, sitting stiffly in her chair. She has to fight the urge to punish the girl for speaking of Lord Rahl with such familiarity; the reflex comes as naturally as breathing, but she doubts that her present company would appreciate it. 

“Come on Kenzi,” Dyson laughs. “It’s Bo—it’s not like she’s ever _needed_ her powers to convince someone to do her bidding.”

Bo rolls her eyes, and Tamsin is almost positive she’s fighting back a blush. The urge to tease the confessor wins out over the general awkwardness of the situation, and Tamsin can’t resist contributing. “She does have a way about her,” she says, arching an eyebrow suggestively. Bo did manage to get her in here, after all.

“I haven’t even been back for an hour, and you’re already ganging up on me,” Bo groans, shooting a playful glare at her friends before turning it on Tamsin. “And you—if you’re just going to side with them, maybe I should have let you leave.” 

Tamsin’s eyebrows jump higher. “Let me?” she scoffs. She keeps her eyes locked with Bo’s, her voice lowering to a dangerous timbre that’s only softened by her smirk. “Confessor, if you think I need your permission for anything, you’re sorely mistaken.” 

“Okay,” Kenzi cuts in, slapping a palm on the table. “It’s official. I like her.” 

“I’m glad someone does right now,” Bo grumbles, fighting a smile as she glares sideways at Tamsin.

Trick clears his throat, drawing their attention. “While it’s wonderful that we’re all getting along,” he says seriously, “there are more important matters at hand.” He sighs, seeking out Bo’s gaze. “We need to move on. We’ve been making preparations since you were taken, Bo; we hoped you would find your way back to us before we had to leave.”

Bo’s eyes widen, and any hint of mirth on her face dissolves into shock and concern. “You’re leaving the Dal?” 

“We have no choice.” Trick sighs again, heavier this time. “Rahl obviously knows we’re here, and that we’re Resistance. If we were attacked here once, we’ll be attacked again.” 

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Tamsin says, exasperation leaking into her tone. She catches Bo’s eye. “You’re in danger here, and my presence only increases that danger. Lord Rahl won’t stop coming after me until I’m captured or dead.” 

“Evony knows what I look like,” Bo counters stubbornly. “I’m just as much a target as you.”

Tamsin sighs; Bo’s missing the point. “And if both targets are in one place, it’s all the easier to take us both out.”

“Where are you even going to go?”

“I’ll figure something out,” Tamsin says feebly. She hasn’t thought that far ahead. 

“You’ll come with us,” Bo insists. 

“Uh, hate to point out the obvious, Bo-Bo,” Kenzi interrupts, nodding toward Tamsin, “but our friends in the Resistance aren’t exactly going to be thrilled to welcome a Mord-Sith.”

“Kenzi’s right,” Dyson agrees. “They might not even give us a chance to explain—they could assume we’re all traitors and shoot us on sight.”

Bo frowns, and for a second Tamsin thinks she may finally be convinced. Then her lips curve upward, and the gleam in her eye can’t possibly mean anything good. “So we won’t travel with a Mord-Sith,” she says, looking pointedly at Kenzi. 

After a beat, Kenzi catches on to Bo’s meaning and her jaw drops. “You mean…?”

“I mean.” Bo nods, and Kenzi lets out an excited squeal.

Dread starts to nibble at the pit of Tamsin’s stomach. “Care to explain in a language we can all understand?” she asks nervously.

The smile on Bo’s lips is unsettling; Tamsin recalls seeing a similar expression on the faces of her sisters when they were about to train a particularly difficult pet. “The only reason people recognize what you are is because your uniform is so distinctive,” Bo explains. “If you were dressed as just another traveler, that’s all anyone would assume you are.” 

Tamsin’s eyes go wide. “You want her,” she says, gesturing dubiously toward Kenzi, “to dress me.”

Bo nods. “And probably cut your hair a bit,” she muses. When Tamsin all but flinches at the suggestion, she rushes on to add, “or at least style it a little differently. The braid would give you away just as much as your leather.” 

This idea is so preposterous that Tamsin hardly knows where to start. “I have a better idea. I go my own way, and my attire officially becomes not your problem,” she says, pushing her chair away from the table.

Before Tamsin can stand completely, Bo reaches out to grab her arm, gently tugging her back down into her seat. “Rahl’s going to be looking for a Mord-Sith, too,” she points out earnestly. “If you really want to leave, I won’t try to stop you, but at least let us give you a better chance for survival.”

Damn it. Tamsin hates when the confessor makes sense. “Fine,” she grits out finally. She turns to shoot Kenzi a warning glare. “But I am _not_ wearing a dress.”

Kenzi throws her hands up to her shoulders, palms out. “Oh, honey, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Too bad,” Bo says, her smile returning as she quirks an eyebrow in Tamsin’s direction. “I’d pay to see that.” 

The mischief dancing in Bo’s eyes is accompanied by something softer, an odd glint that puts Tamsin on edge. It’s the same glint she’s tried to ignore every time their gazes meet in a quiet moment, the one that can’t lead to anything good. Tamsin has felt sexual desire before, knows how to recognize it in others, but this…this feels different. 

A loud creak breaks the silence, and everyone’s attention is drawn to the tavern’s front door. The pair that walks in stops abruptly when they see everyone gathered at the table.

“Bo, you’re back!” the blonde exclaims, joy and relief flooding her features. This must be Lauren, Tamsin assumes, given what Bo has told her. That would make the darker-skinned man beside her Hale. Lauren rushes toward the table, only to stop abruptly when her eyes land on Tamsin. The happiness drains from her face, replaced by hatred and mistrust. It’s a look that Tamsin knows well—the one that sees nothing beyond the red leather and the braid. “What’s going on?”

“Lauren.” Bo pushes away from the table, rising from her seat. “Just let me explain—”

“Oh, I think the least you owe me is an explanation,” Lauren snaps, backing away as Bo steps closer. Her eyes never leave Tamsin.

“Uh,” Kenzi says, laughing nervously as she stands, “why don’t I take Tammy here upstairs and get started on that makeover?” Bo nods gratefully to Kenzi, then turns to give Tamsin a beseeching look. Tamsin doesn’t need much convincing; the tension in this room just ramped up to uncomfortable levels, and she’d rather not stick around for whatever is coming next. 

“Be nice,” Bo calls after them.

Tamsin turns back to Bo and rolls her eyes. “I can take care of myself, confessor.”

Bo smirks. “What makes you think I was talking to her?”

***

The room fills with a tense silence; the only sound is the distant footsteps of Kenzi and Tamsin on the stairs. Bo stands frozen, searching her mind for some way to explain the situation that Lauren will actually listen to. Lauren just stares at Bo in shock for a moment, before whirling around and storming through the door on the back wall that leads to her rooms.

“Lauren—” Bo calls after her, but Lauren doesn’t stop. Shutting her eyes, Bo takes a deep breath before following. 

Wooden crates are stacked against the walls, filled to the brim with healing supplies. A couple sit empty and open on the cot designated for patients. They really have been getting ready to leave. It’s been a few years since Bo has had to be constantly on the run, moving from place to place nearly every other day, never getting attached. She’s not sure how to even start saying goodbye to this place.

She doesn’t get much time to contemplate the matter; Lauren whirls around angrily as soon as Bo steps into the room. “So were you ever actually in any danger, or were you just taking a leisurely walk through the woods with your new best friend?”

There’s something strange in her tone, something beyond the obvious anger. Bo frowns, narrows her eyes. “Are you _jealous_?” 

Lauren’s eyes widen as she scoffs. “Should I be?” 

“You know I can’t…” Bo’s throat catches. “I can’t have that. Not with anyone.”

“You’re not denying that you want it,” Lauren shoots back, her gaze hard and accusing. “With _her_.” 

It’s been hard enough dealing with her feelings on her own; Bo didn’t realize it was so obvious that Lauren could see it in such a short time. And for Lauren to call her on those feelings, after everything…it stings. Tears prick at Bo’s eyes. “I want a lot of things that I can’t have.”

“She’s a Mord-Sith!” Lauren spits, her voice full of disgust and disbelief.

“ _Tamsin_ is my friend,” Bo says, as her own voice hardens. “I thought you were, too.”

“Yeah, well, I thought you had some sense.” Lauren laughs coldly, shakes her head. “Or at least the tact not to bring that monster into a home that I share, too.” 

“She’s not the one who killed Nadia!” Bo snaps, anger chasing away any hint of tears. 

Lauren flinches as if slapped. “No,” she chokes out. “No, that was me. After she begged me to end her suffering.” 

Guilt settles heavy on Bo’s shoulders. “That’s not what I meant,” she says softly. She steps closer, reaching out to touch Lauren’s shoulder. “Lauren—”

“Just…go,” Lauren says, dodging Bo’s touch. “I still have a lot of supplies to pack.”

“If you’d just let me explain—”

“I can’t, Bo,” Lauren says, cutting her off. “I can’t do this right now.”

***

The door to the infirmary clicks shut behind Bo, and she sags against it, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She knew this would be difficult; she can only hope that time will calm Lauren’s anger enough to give Tamsin a chance.

“Hale, are you sure your parents won’t offer any help?” Trick asks. He, Dyson, and Hale are seated around the large table, apparently still discussing their travel plans. 

“Very sure,” Hale replies wryly. “They’re no fans of Rahl, but they like their gold and their fancy mansion. They won’t do anything to jeopardize it.”

Dyson chuckles. “Can you imagine the look on their faces, though, if you brought Kenzi back to meet them? She’s a far cry from your betrothed.”

“Oh, man,” Hale laughs, rubbing his hand across his mouth. “She is definitely not the Princess of Thryce. They’d lose it.” 

Their laughter fades as they notice Bo’s return. “Bo,” Dyson says, rising from his seat. “Is everything all right?” 

Bo smiles weakly at his concern, making her way over to the table. “Fine,” she sighs. “Just ready for this day to be over.” She turns to Trick. “Please tell me we’re not leaving today.” 

Trick shakes his head. “First thing in the morning,” he assures her with a smile.

“Thank the spirits.” Bo sinks down into a chair, resting an elbow on the table to prop up her head. “I am way overdue for a hot bath and a night in an actual bed.” 

“I think that can be arranged,” Trick says, glancing at Dyson and Hale. “Why don’t you two start bringing up some water from the stream, and I’ll start working on supper.” 

“You got it, Trick,” Hale says, pushing out of his seat. He smacks Dyson on the shoulder. “Hey, man, I’ll race you down there.”

Dyson grins. “You’re on.” 

When the younger men have left the tavern, Trick doesn’t head for the kitchen right away; instead he turns his focus to Bo, his eyes shining with concern as he settles into the chair next to hers. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Bo.”

Bo frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Tamsin.” 

“Ugh, Trick, not you too,” Bo groans. She just got home and already she feels like she needs a break from it. 

“I saw how you were looking at her,” Trick presses. “You know you can’t get close to anyone, not like that—and especially not with her. Your touch won’t just enslave Tamsin—it’ll kill her.”

It’s nothing Bo doesn’t already know, but it doesn’t help her mental state to hear it aloud. “I know that,” she says, her shoulders sagging in resignation. “We’re just friends, Trick. She saved my life.”

“After endangering it in the first place,” Trick points out. Bo inhales sharply to respond, and he holds up his hands in surrender. “I know, I know. I’m not going to retread old ground. But are you sure it’s a good idea to have her around?” 

“She doesn’t have anyone else,” Bo says earnestly. “I know what that feels like. I can’t just let her go off on her own, especially not when it’s because of me that she’s alone.” 

Trick nods, as if he already anticipated her answer. Reaching out, he gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Just…be careful.”

***

If Tamsin had been under the impression that Bo talked a lot, it was only because she hadn’t yet been introduced to Kenzi. She’s not entirely sure that the girl doesn’t have some sort of magic that makes it unnecessary to breathe; she hasn’t stopped talking since they reached the second floor. Strangely, Tamsin only finds it mildly irritating. As long as Kenzi keeps talking, Tamsin doesn’t have to, which gives her more time to figure out her next move.

The idea of joining Bo and her friends—more or less joining the Resistance—is one that Tamsin initially recoiled from. Subverting her orders to set Bo free was one thing; actively joining the fight against Lord Rahl is something else entirely. 

Her contemplation is put on hold as the sharp snick of scissors fills her ears. It’s only hair, but it hasn’t been cut since she was a child; the loss of any of it pricks at her chest. Tamsin is startled from her shock when Kenzi reaches forward, offering the length of braid she’s just removed.

“The way you reacted to the idea, I figure it probably means a lot to you,” Kenzi says kindly. 

Taking the hair in her hands, Tamsin runs bare fingers over it. The braid isn’t in the best condition—it hasn’t been taken down and redone in nearly two weeks—but aside from the agiel stuffed into the bottom of her pack, it’s the last remnant of who she used to be. 

After a moment, she realizes Kenzi is still looking at her, confused by her lack of response. “Thank you,” Tamsin says gruffly, closing her hand around the braid. 

“Don’t sweat it.” Kenzi smiles, then waggles her fingers. “Now let’s see what magic I can work back here with what’s left.” 

It doesn’t take long for Kenzi to brush Tamsin’s remaining hair back, securing it in a knot at the back of her head. It doesn’t feel very different from the braid she’s used to, except that it’s much lighter. 

“All right!” Kenzi claps her hands together before resting them on Tamsin’s shoulders. “Tams, you are officially a new woman.” 

At Kenzi’s urging, Tamsin rises from her chair. “You do know my name isn’t that hard to say,” she says dryly, letting herself be guided to the full-length mirror in the corner.

Kenzi waves a hand dismissively. “Yeah, but everyone calls you that name. It’s boring.” 

“Actually, more people call me Mistress.” Tamsin smirks, but her brow furrows as she takes in the strange sight before her. In Bo’s clothes, without her braid, she looks like just another Midlander. She doubts very much that anyone would address her by her former title now. 

“Ha! See, I knew I liked you,” Kenzi replies, patting Tamsin on the shoulder. Her head tilts as she examines the image in the mirror, tugging at various parts of the outfit to make adjustments. “Sorry about the fit. Lauren’s probably closer to your size, but I’m pretty sure asking her would only give us more trouble to deal with.”

“What’s her story, anyway?” Tamsin asks, pulling at one of her sleeves. They’re looser than she’s accustomed to; her leathers were more of a second skin than clothing. “I’ve met plenty of people who hate Mord-Sith on principle, but she was looking at me like I personally killed everyone she’s ever known.” 

An awkward grimace pulls at Kenzi’s mouth. “That’s not too far from the truth,” she says, stepping away from the mirror to sit at the edge of Bo’s bed. “I mean, not you personally, of course, and not everyone she’s ever met, but…” 

“But she did lose someone,” Tamsin finishes, shifting to lean against the dresser. “And she blames it on any Mord-Sith she comes across.” 

“Basically,” Kenzi confirms with a nod. “I don’t know the whole story, but Bo told me a little bit of it—they got really close for a while.”

A pang of something resonates in Tamsin’s chest, and she frowns, pushing it aside. She raises an eyebrow, nodding for Kenzi to continue.

“Lauren used to work for Rahl,” Kenzi explains. “She was one of his best healers, until she did something he didn’t like, or wouldn’t do something he wanted—something like that. To punish her, he had the Mord-Sith take her lover and train her.” She sighs. “It apparently worked pretty well to keep her in line, until something happened and Nadia died. Then she ditched the People’s Palace and found her way to us.” 

“Charming story,” Tamsin says. It certainly sounds like something Lord Rahl would do. “Explains the murder in her eyes, at least.” 

“She’ll come around,” Kenzi says, her voice filled with forced enthusiasm. Standing up again, she looks around the room. “Now, we just have to figure out sleeping arrangements.”

Tamsin shrugs. “I’ll be fine on the floor.”

“You will not,” Bo admonishes from the doorway. Tamsin’s head jerks in her direction. Bo’s hair is damp, and she looks more relaxed than before. She smiles as she leans against the door frame. “You can take my bed. I’ll bunk with Kenzi.”

Kenzi squeals happily, clasping her hands together in front of her. “It’ll be just like old times!” She practically bounces toward the doorway. “I’m gonna go see if Trick has any treats he hasn’t packed away yet.” 

Bo chuckles as she lets Kenzi slip by her. The girl’s footsteps thunder down the stairs. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Tamsin says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m Mord-Sith. Sleeping on the floor is hardly the worst torture I’ve ever endured.” 

Stepping closer, Bo joins Tamsin at the dresser and bumps their shoulders together. “Well, I wouldn’t want you staying with us to feel like torture,” she teases, but there’s a question buried beneath the mirth. 

Tamsin swallows hard; she knows what Bo is asking. “I really shouldn’t.”

Sighing, Bo turns her body to face Tamsin. “What other option do you have? Wander the Midlands aimlessly looking for things to torture to pass the time?” 

Despite the weight of the question at hand, Tamsin can’t help but smirk. “It’s like you know me.” 

“I’d like to.” Bo’s voice is soft, her fingers softer where they slip between Tamsin’s own. “They’re good people. They took me in when I didn’t have anyone or anything. We could do the same for you. We’re not your sisters, but we could be your family.” 

Tamsin looks down at their hands. With her gloves packed away, there’s nothing separating their skin; if Bo were so inclined, she could confess Tamsin right here. Strangely, Tamsin finds that she doesn’t really want to pull away. “How does your healer friend feel about that?” 

Bo inhales, her fingers tightening around Tamsin’s briefly as she contemplates the question. “Lauren…it’s not going to be easy for her. Darken Rahl and his Mord-Sith did a lot of things that really screwed up her life. Coming in and seeing you sitting there, it just brought it all back.” She pauses, then squeezes Tamsin’s hand again and smiles. “But hey, hopefully your new look will help her see past that. Kenzi did a good job.”

“She gave me some of your clothes and chopped off my hair,” Tamsin says, raising an eyebrow skeptically. “Not much of a job to do, good or otherwise.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” Bo warns good-naturedly. “She’ll be devastated.”

Tamsin scoffs. “Something tells me that even a huge cache of dragon’s breath couldn’t destroy that girl.”

“She’s stronger than she looks,” Bo agrees fondly. A beat passes before she gasps. “Oh, I wanted to return this to you,” she says pulling her hand away. Tamsin’s skin is chilled at the sudden loss. Bo bends down to pull Tamsin’s hunting knife from her boot, offering it to Tamsin handle-first. “I’ve been reunited with my sword now, and I’ve never been a big fan of knife fighting.” 

Rather than taking the knife, Tamsin looks down at it for a moment before resting her hand gently on top of Bo’s. “Keep it. You never know when it might be useful.” She shrugs, thinking of Acacia’s knife tucked into her own boot. “I have another.”

A soft smile touches Bo’s lips. “Thanks,” she murmurs, her eyes locking onto Tamsin’s. 

Tamsin has lost count of how many moments like this have passed between them. The air around them seems to thicken, and Bo’s skin is warm and electric under her own. The urge to kiss her is nearly a physical ache, one that Tamsin is dangerously close to giving in to when Bo opts instead to pull her into a hug. 

On occasion, Tamsin has wondered what the point is of physical contact that’s not designed to either arouse or inflict pain. This embrace doesn’t quite answer the question, but she doesn’t really want to stop it, either. Bo fits snug against her, chin tilted up to rest on her shoulder as warm hands lay flat against her back. There’s something worthwhile here, something that makes Tamsin almost understand why people would want to do something as ridiculous as hug. 

“I swear that man can read minds.” The garbled voice shatters the silence, and Bo jumps away from Tamsin with a start. Kenzi has a plate in one hand, the other holding the remains of a cookie. She stops chewing abruptly when she sees the awkward, almost guilty expression on Bo’s face. “Uh, Trick also said to tell you two ladies that supper is just about ready. Gotta load up on energy for the big move.”

Kenzi slides the plate of cookies onto a table by the door and backs out of the room, her eyes meeting Bo’s briefly before she heads back downstairs. 

Bo shakes her head, offering Tamsin a weak smile. “Great, I’m starving.” 

So is Tamsin, but she doesn’t think food will quell this hunger. If she does decide to stay with Bo and her friends—which she can admit, at least to herself, is really a forgone conclusion—it won’t be for a lack of torture.


	9. Chapter 9

Defeat lines Dyson’s face, edged with a hint of barely controlled anger. Tamsin grins, twisting her blade against his throat—not enough to cut, just enough to let him feel the keen edge of the sword. It’s disappointingly silent—the whine of an agiel is nearly threat enough to make someone back down—but there is a certain satisfaction in the glint of light off of polished steel.

Irritation flashes in Dyson’s eyes as he rolls them skyward. “You cheated.” 

With a scoff, Tamsin lowers her sword. “If that helps you sleep at night,” she says, slipping her weapon back into the scabbard at her hip. 

“I was distracted,” Dyson insists, collecting his own sword from the ground nearby. They’d been deadlocked, blade to blade, neither one giving any ground, when Dyson had suddenly tensed and looked away. It was all Tamsin needed to knock the weapon from his hands and claim victory. 

“A true warrior is never too distracted to defend themselves,” Tamsin points out, raising an eyebrow. She smirks. “You just can’t stand the thought that you lost to a woman.” 

Dyson shakes his head, turning away from Tamsin to scan the forest around them. “You are more than just a woman,” he ripostes. “And if we’d been fighting for real, I could have killed you a dozen times.”

“Funny,” Tamsin says coolly, following Dyson’s gaze. “I can’t seem to remember one.” 

Their friendly bickering is forgotten in an instant as the reason for Dyson’s distraction comes into view. A few hundred yards away, a lanky, ginger-haired man is walking through the forest, sizing each tree up for some unknown reason as a lone Mord-Sith follows close behind. Her blonde hair is chopped at the shoulder, but everything else about her is standard issue Mord-Sith. The man decides on a tree and turns away from her, fumbling with the laces of his pants as the Mord-Sith waves her agiel menacingly at him. 

“This doesn’t look good,” Dyson murmurs. 

“Mord-Sith usually bind our prisoners,” Tamsin replies with a frown. “And we don’t travel alone.” 

Dyson shakes his head, stepping carefully back away from the ridge they’d been sparring on. “Whatever’s going on, the others need to know. We should head back.”

Tamsin doesn’t offer any argument; whatever this Mord-Sith is doing near their camp, it can’t mean anything good.

***

 

“Fitzpatrick MacCorieghan.” 

Bo looks up from the remains of their campfire, her hand already reaching for her sword. The voice belongs to a white-haired man in brown robes; judging by the grin on his face, violence is the last thing on his mind, but Bo keeps her hand on her weapon’s hilt regardless. Two others stand behind him, a man and a woman, both smiling in fond exasperation.

“Zeddicus!” Trick smiles broadly, stepping closer to extend his hand to the newcomer. The two men clasp forearms in greeting—an interesting sight, given that Trick is half the man’s height. “What has it been, decades?”

“Indeed,” the man agrees, patting Trick’s shoulder before straightening. “What have you been doing all these years?”

“Nothing as exciting as you, I’m afraid.” Trick shakes his head. “Just trying to avoid notice. These are dangerous times.”

“You have no idea.” The man’s voice is grave, his eyes wide and serious.

The cheer of a few moments before seems to dissipate in the face of what the old man could mean. It’s hard to imagine things being worse than they are under Darken Rahl’s leadership.

Kenzi is the one who finally breaks the tension, nudging Trick with her arm. “Uh, hey, Trickster, care to introduce us?” 

“Oh, of course, Kenzi,” Trick says, gesturing to the taller man. “This is Zeddicus Z’ul Zorander, Wizard of the First Order, and an old friend of mine.” Zeddicus gives a little bow, his smile returning. Trick’s gaze shifts to the young man. “And this strapping young lad must be the seeker I’ve heard so much about!” 

The seeker steps forward, a bashful smile on his face. “Just call me Richard. And this is Kahlan.”

Kahlan appears to be a few years younger than Bo, but her presence is powerful. Her crystalline blue eyes hold a wisdom beyond her years, and something about her feels…familiar, on a very basic level.

“Kahlan Amnell,” Trick murmurs, then bows his head. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mother Confessor.” 

Bo’s eyes widen in shock. She’s heard the stories of the Seeker of Truth and his confessor, traveling across the Midlands to hunt down Darken Rahl, but a part of her almost didn’t believe them. Now, to come face to face with not just any confessor, but the Mother Confessor herself…she doesn’t know how to feel. 

“You don’t have to be so formal,” Kahlan says with a gracious smile. “Any friend of Zedd’s is a friend of ours.” 

The sound of crunching leaves and snapping twigs draws their attention to the side, where Dyson and Tamsin are rushing into camp. Tamsin finds her way immediately to Bo’s side, raking her eyes suspiciously over the newcomers before leaning in to speak in a low voice. “These aren’t our only guests,” she murmurs gravely. “There’s a—”

“Ow!” A high-pitched cry of pain cuts Tamsin off. Tamsin draws her sword in one quick, fluid motion, stepping in front of Bo. A red-haired man is stumbling forward to join Richard and Kahlan, followed by a Mord-Sith who is periodically prodding him with her agiel. “Stop it! I’m going!” 

The Mord-Sith pushes the man to the ground, narrowing her eyes as she turns to address Richard. “That’s the last time I chase after this idiot.” She waves a gloved hand to punctuate her statement. “If he tries to run off again, I’m binding his hands and feet and we can drag him to Pamorah.” 

“I just needed to relieve myself!” The prone man pulls himself to his feet with Richard’s help. “Is that not allowed?” he shoots back at the Mord-Sith. 

A feral grin spreads on the Mord-Sith’s lips as she twirls her agiel in the air. “Not if I say it isn’t.”

Richard clears his throat. “And this would be Cara,” he says, raising an eyebrow as he motions toward the Mord-Sith, then the other man, “and Flynn.” 

Bo can practically feel the tension radiating from Tamsin. If she was thrown by seeing the confessor, she can only imagine how Tamsin feels to see one of her former sisters for the first time since her betrayal. The tension only worsens as Cara’s sharp gaze drifts over each of them, finally landing on Tamsin.

“Wizard, you may want to step back,” Cara warns, drawing an agiel in each hand and stepping in front of Richard. 

Richard looks bewildered. “Cara, what—” 

“She’s Mord-Sith,” Cara explains, cutting his protest short. 

“Not anymore,” Tamsin snarls, stepping forward as she grips her sword.

Cara’s eyes narrow as she cocks her head. “Your duties don’t end just because Darken Rahl is dead.”

Tamsin’s sword arm drops a few inches as the blood drains from her face. “Lord Rahl is dead?”

Trick laughs nervously, rubbing his hands together in front of him. “It seems we have a lot to catch up on, old friend,” he says to Zedd. 

“It seems so.” Zedd waggles his bushy eyebrows. “Why don’t we trade stories over a nice meal?”

“A meal?” Cara turns away from Tamsin to glare at Zedd. “Wizard, it’s barely mid-morning.”

“And who are you to dictate a man’s appetite?” Zedd retorts. 

An arched eyebrow is Cara’s only response. A smile tugs at Bo’s lips in spite of everything; glancing to the side, she can see the corner of Tamsin’s mouth turning up in a smirk as well. 

“It’s good to see you haven’t changed, Zedd,” Trick says with a smile. “We were about to pack up and head out, but we can hold off for an hour or two—just have to get the fire back to life.” 

“I believe I can help with that,” Zedd offers with a grin and a wiggle of his fingers. As the two men head over to the fire, they are followed swiftly by Flynn; he seems all too eager to get away from Cara. Richard and Kahlan move to follow, but not before Richard stops to give Cara a pointed look. 

“We’re among friends, Cara,” he says firmly. “You can put your weapons away.”

Clenching her jaw, Cara grudgingly obeys, sliding her agiels back into twin holsters on her thigh.

“Two agiels,” Tamsin remarks, arching an eyebrow as she sheathes her sword. “For most Mord-Sith, one is more than enough.”

“I’m not most Mord-Sith,” Cara bites back, raking her eyes over Tamsin. “And you don’t seem to be in a position to judge anyone.”

As entertaining as it is to watch this battle of wills, Bo can see that violence is a very real possibility. She has only really been able to observe Mord-Sith in her journey with Tamsin, but what she’s seen is a strict hierarchy. No two Mord-Sith are equals; one must always dominate. She’s not sure who would come out on top between Tamsin and Cara, but she knows that the fight itself would do no one any good. 

Slipping her hand into the crook of Tamsin’s elbow, Bo tugs gently. “Down, girl,” she murmurs cheekily. Tamsin reluctantly allows herself to be pulled away, leaving Cara standing alone at the edge of camp.

 

***

 

“We thought the fight was over with Darken Rahl’s death,” Zedd laments around a mouthful of food. “But the Keeper is a much more formidable opponent. We can only hope that Pamorah holds the answer to finding the Stone of Tears.” 

The wizard’s story has everyone reeling. For three weeks they’ve been traveling, seeking out a Resistance stronghold that the Dragon Corps haven’t already razed. They’ve avoided all civilization, never sure whether a town has fallen to Rahl’s influence yet and not willing to risk recognition. Tamsin doesn’t remember ever meeting Cara, but the other woman recognized her easily enough—and Evony knows what Bo looks like as well. For all they know, there could be wanted posters up in every town in the Midlands. 

It was only today that they decided it was worth the risk, when they ran out of some crucial healing herb or something—and even then, only Lauren and Hale ventured ahead to the village nearby. Now it seems their caution was unnecessary; Lord Rahl’s forces have all either returned to the People’s Palace or dispersed into roving bands of outlaws. It’s too bad, really; Tamsin had half-hoped something would happen to Lauren, so she wouldn’t have to put up with the constant glares and mistrust. Oh, well—there’s always the possibility of baneling attack. 

Unlike the others, Tamsin isn’t as focused on the imminent threat of the Keeper’s wrath, so much as the catalyst for his recent rise to power. She has served Lord Rahl for nearly her entire life; even though she had already forsaken him when he died, she can’t quite overcome the feeling of guilt and shame for not protecting him. 

Bo’s shoulder bumps against hers, so light it might have been accidental if not for the smirk playing at her lips. Tamsin can’t help but smile back, just a little. Bo seems to have taken it upon herself to never let Tamsin brood for too long. The gesture is an effective reminder that she protected someone more worthy than Darken Rahl—and certainly more than this boy seeker who refuses to claim the title of Rahl. 

“I don’t envy your task, my friend,” Trick is saying, when Tamsin turns her attention back to the conversation at hand. “The entire land of the living is depending on your success. If there’s anything we can do to help, just say the word.”

“There just might be,” Zedd muses, tapping his spoon against the side of his bowl as he thinks. “The Wizard’s Keep in Aydindril may hold information vital to our quest. Unfortunately, it’s in the opposite direction of Pamorah, and I cannot abandon Richard. If you could head there yourself…”

Trick shoots a brief, panicked look in Tamsin’s direction, and Tamsin rolls her eyes in response. Did he really think she didn’t know he was a wizard? He may not have used his powers in her presence, but she can sense magic just as easily as she can deflect it. “Consider it done,” he says with a sigh, apparently realizing the futility of denying it now. “We’ve been traveling without a real destination anyway.”

“Wonderful.” Zedd polishes off the last of the warmed-up stew, setting the bowl on the log beside him. “Now, perhaps we should talk further in private,” he says, glancing meaningfully at Cara and then Tamsin. 

When Tamsin rolls her eyes this time, she catches a glimpse of Cara doing the same. Their exasperated smirks both fade into stoic frowns as they look away. 

“Yes, of course.” Trick nods, rising to his feet and gesturing to the wagon parked several yards away. “Come with me—I think I can rustle up some dessert.”

Zedd clasps his hands in front of him excitedly. “I don’t suppose you have any of those delectable honey cakes?”

Trick chuckles. “I might have a few left, if this one hasn’t eaten them all.” He nods toward Kenzi, ignoring her open-mouthed indignation as he leads Zedd over to the wagon.

***

 

With Zedd and Trick off having their private discussion, the rest are left sitting around the fire in somewhat awkward silence. Bo can’t stop staring at Kahlan; of all the ways she’s pictured meeting another confessor, running into one at some random stop in the Midlands was never at the top of her list—and this is no ordinary confessor. She’s not sure what to say, where to start. 

“So, the Mother Confessor,” Bo finally says, unable to hide the awe in her voice. “Wow.” 

“There aren’t many of us left.” Kahlan’s cheeks flush a light pink. “The title isn’t usually given to one so young, but my sisters felt I was the best candidate for the job.” 

“Don’t be so modest,” Richard chides, nudging Kahlan with his shoulder. “You were the only one willing to stand up and do what was right. That’s what a leader does.”

“Funny,” Cara interjects, shooting Richard a withering look. “I wouldn’t expect you to know much about leading.” 

Richard lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Cara, I’ve told you. There are ways to lead without naming myself Lord Rahl.” 

“Less effective ones,” Cara retorts.

“So,” Kahlan cuts in, directing her attention at Bo and her friends, “how is it you came to travel with a Mord-Sith?” She speaks the title like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

“She could ask you the same question,” Tamsin retorts before Bo can answer.

“I serve the Lord Rahl,” Cara says icily, her gloved hand resting against the agiels at her hip. “I do not hide what I am like a coward.”

“Tamsin is no coward,” Bo interjects, laying a hand on Tamsin’s arm. After three weeks of traveling with Lauren, the instinct to defend Tamsin is more of a reflex than a conscious decision. “She defied her orders to save me.” 

Kahlan’s brow tightens. “Save you from what?”

“Well…” Bo hesitates, trying to figure out how much to tell. 

“From me,” Tamsin says bluntly. “I was meant to deliver her to Lord Rahl.” 

Richard frowns. “What would Rahl want with you?”

Bo glances around at her friends. She doesn’t normally announce her power, but surely if she can tell anyone, it would be the Mother Confessor.

“Bo is a confessor,” Dyson offers. Bo smiles gratefully at him. 

“A confessor?” Kahlan gasps, her eyes widening as they fix on Bo’s. “I thought all the remaining confessors had fled to Valeria.” 

The log beneath Cara creaks as she shifts, drawing the attention of the group. She shrugs and raises her eyebrows, but her hand seems to be pressing down on her agiels a little harder. Next to Bo, Tamsin seems a bit more tense than before, but she remains silent. 

“I must have missed my invitation,” Bo cracks, filing away the Mord-Sith’s strange behavior for later contemplation. 

“Bo’s story is…complicated,” Kenzi explains with an awkward grimace. 

“She wasn’t raised with other confessors,” Dyson elaborates.

For a moment, Kahlan just stares. “Your mother?”

Bo shrugs, giving her head a shake. “I never knew her,” she sighs. “You’re the first confessor I’ve met.”

“Spirits.” An awestruck smile touches the corners of Kahlan’s mouth. “You must have so many questions.” 

“To say the least,” Bo admits. A part of her wants to be angry at Kahlan, to lay the blame for her ignorant upbringing at the Mother Confessor’s feet—but a larger part wants to sit with Kahlan for hours, asking every question that’s ever crossed her mind about her nature. “I almost wish we were going with you, instead of to Aydindril.”

Kahlan’s smile is tinged with disappointment. “I wish that were possible,” she says. “But with so few of us left, we can’t risk both of our lives on such a dangerous mission.” 

“You could always go with them,” Richard points out. When Kahlan turns to him to protest, he reaches for her hand and squeezes. “Kahlan, you’re the Mother Confessor. Your place is in Aydindril.”

“Richard, we’ve talked about this,” Kahlan replies softly, lacing her fingers with his. “I belong at your side.” 

Cara rolls her eyes, releasing an audible sigh. “This could take a while.”

“Not that I want to get poked again with her stick of pain,” Flynn speaks up timidly, “but she’s got a point. I’d prefer to get to Pamorah as soon as possible so I can get rid of this thing.” He waves his hand pointedly at them, displaying the glyph imprinted on the palm.

Kahlan levels her gaze at Richard. “I’m going with you.”

Richard sighs, shaking his head as his shoulders slump in resignation.

“My good man,” Zedd says, his booming voice announcing his return, “the day you stop baking is the day the Keeper wins. Surely there would be no point to living without your divine confections.” 

Kenzi perks up, shooting Trick a pointed look. “Listen to the man, Trick,” she urges. “He’s old—he knows stuff.” 

Trick smiles and shakes his head. “Here, Zedd, take the rest for the road.” He hands Zedd a small bundle, and Kenzi’s squeal of protest can be heard for leagues. As Zedd tucks the bundle up one voluminous sleeve, Trick turns to Kenzi and winks. “Don’t worry, I have a secret stash set aside for you.” 

Kenzi presses a palm to her chest, a look of exaggerated fondness on her face. “See, this is why I love you.”

Turning back to Zedd, Trick offers his hand. “Take care, my friend. I’ll contact you just as soon as I find anything.”

“Wait, you don’t think we’re going to leave all the clean up to you, do you?” Richard smiles, gesturing to his companions. When Cara grumbles, he turns a sharp look in her direction. “It’s the least we can do after such a wonderful meal.” 

As everyone sets to work dismantling the camp and dealing with the remnants of their meal—of which there is little, thanks to Zedd and Kenzi—Bo seeks out Kahlan and pulls her aside. 

“Can I ask you something?” Bo asks, speaking softly to avoid being overheard.

“Of course.” Kahlan smiles, reaching out to squeeze Bo’s arm. “Anything.”

Bo’s heart hammers in her chest. “You and Richard seem…more than friendly,” she says nervously.

Kahlan glances at Richard, a bittersweet smile pulling at her lips. “It’s complicated,” she says, turning back to Bo. “But you’re not wrong.”

“I didn’t think that was possible.” Bo is doing her best to sound casual, but she can’t keep the hope out of her voice.

“It’s not,” Kahlan says gently. “He just hasn’t accepted it yet. He thinks he can find a way.” 

Hope turns to lead, sinking heavy in Bo’s stomach. “You don’t think there is.” 

Kahlan shakes her head, her eyes glimmering with a familiar sorrow. “I’m sorry.” 

“No,” Bo says, fighting back the tears that are pricking at her eyes. “No, I-I’m sorry to bring up a painful subject.” 

“Don’t be.” Kahlan smiles encouragingly, reaching out again to rest a hand on Bo’s shoulder. “It’s better that you know, before someone gets hurt.” 

Guilt swells in Bo’s throat as she thinks of Kyle, her parents. “It’s a little late for that.”

Kahlan lets out a sigh, her eyes radiating sympathy. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you,” she murmurs. “Growing up with no knowledge of what you are.” 

“I managed,” Bo says with a weak shrug. She’s surprised to find herself tugged forward into a hug; her hands find their way to Kahlan’s back, and she soaks in the comfort being offered. 

After a few moments, Kahlan draws back. “Once our quest is done, I’ll be returning to Aydindril. I’ll tell you everything I know about our heritage,” she promises.

“That would be nice,” Bo says, smiling in spite of her disappointment. Even though she’s only just met Kahlan, it already feels like she’s family—like Bo has found some missing piece of her puzzle.

“Come along, Kahlan!” Zedd calls from the edge of camp. “We’ll have to get a move on if we want to make it to Harmont in time for supper!” 

With one last smile, Kahlan turns away from Bo to catch up to her party. As the group fades from sight, Bo can faintly hear Cara and Zedd bickering about the wizard’s stomach. 

“It looked serious,” Tamsin remarks, sidling up beside Bo. “Whatever you and the Mother Confessor were discussing.” It’s the closest Tamsin will come to asking Bo what’s wrong. 

“It was nothing,” Bo says with a shrug, forcing a smile to her lips as she turns to meet Tamsin’s gaze. “Just confessor stuff.” She’s the confessor, not Tamsin, but Bo knows her lie is obvious. Fortunately, Tamsin doesn’t push. 

“We should get going,” Tamsin says smoothly. “Hale and your healer friend will be waiting for us at the rendezvous.”

“Her name is Lauren,” Bo reminds her, rolling her eyes as she follows Tamsin toward the path.


	10. Chapter 10

The camp is quiet, dark but for the glowing embers that remain of the fire. The soft sounds of sleep push gently at the stillness, not quite enough to break it. Bo has managed to drag herself upright, leaning back against a log by the fire. She’s still blinking the sleep from her eyes when Lauren sinks down onto the ground beside her.

“Second watch is always the worst.”

Bo glances sideways to see Lauren peering at her with a tentative smile on her lips. They haven’t been as close lately, but things have at least gotten a little less tense. She’s missed the easy comfort of their friendship, the way they’ve never needed to speak to communicate. In time, maybe they can get that back. 

“Someone’s got to do it,” Bo replies, smiling. 

Lauren looks down at her hands, inhaling deeply. “Bo, there’s something I need to tell you. I wanted you to know before I tell everyone else.” 

“What is it?” Bo asks, her brow tightening. 

After another quick breath, Lauren looks up to meet Bo’s eyes. “There’s a village a couple of days away,” she begins hesitantly. “Felridge. Their healer was slain by remnants of the Dragon Corps.” 

Dread begins to nibble at the edges of Bo’s stomach; she almost doesn’t need Lauren to continue, but part of her needs to hear the words. “And?” she asks weakly.

“And…” Lauren sighs. “When we reach Felridge, I’m going to stay there.” 

Swallowing against the lump in her throat, Bo struggles to keep her voice steady. “You’re not coming with us to Aydindril.” 

“I’m not an adventurer,” Lauren says with a chuckle, shaking her head softly. “I never was.”

“We’re not going to be doing much adventuring,” Bo points out. “You think Aydindril doesn’t need healers?”

Lauren lifts an eyebrow. “Aydindril has wizards to spare. They _need_ healers in Felridge. I can do more good there.” 

“Well, I want you to do what makes you happy,” Bo says, reaching over to lay her hand on Lauren’s forearm. She hesitates. “You’re not just doing this because of me?”

“No,” Lauren replies with a smile. She covers Bo’s hand with her own, squeezing gently as she chooses her words. “Bo, after Nadia, I thought I was broken beyond repair. I couldn’t imagine ever getting close to anyone again.” Her eyes lock onto Bo’s, glimmering with affection and gratitude. “Then I met you.”

Bo’s heart skips a little in her chest, and she turns her hand over to lace her fingers with Lauren’s. It’s been more than a year since they acknowledged the feelings between them, as well as the necessity of ignoring them—but they’ve only faded, not disappeared.

“You proved that I could love again,” Lauren continues, squeezing Bo’s hand again, “and I will always be grateful for that…but I can’t be with you. I’ve known that from the start.”

Tears prick at Bo’s eyes. “We both have.” 

“It’s just easy to forget when I’m actually around you,” Lauren says, chuckling to herself. 

“I know the feeling,” Bo murmurs, looking down at their joined hands. 

Lauren inhales deeply, and her thumb brushes gently along Bo’s index finger. “I will always care about you,” she says, her voice starting to shake. “But if I go with you to Aydindril, I’m always going to be waiting for something that’s never going to happen.”

Bo wants to rage at the unfairness of it all; that this thing she’s wanted so fiercely not once, but twice—and verging on a third time—is the one thing she can never have. Falling in love has been painful enough for her alone, but she’s not the only one who gets hurt—something that she too often forgets. “You know that if I could—”

“I know,” Lauren says, cutting Bo off with a soft smile. “You have such a big heart. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you. It’s just…also why I have to leave.” She pauses, and her gaze drifts toward the fire. “Especially now, with…Tamsin.” It’s the first time Lauren has actually said her name.

“Lauren,” Bo chokes out, searching her mind for an argument she hasn’t already tried.

“I know I haven’t been fair to her,” Lauren admits, with obvious difficulty. “If you care this much about her, there must be something worth caring about. I just don’t know if I can bring myself to see it.”

“So what, you want me to choose?” A familiar frustration swells in Bo’s chest. “Either she leaves or you do?”

Lauren shakes her head. “No, Bo, that’s not what this is about.” She looks up, meeting Bo’s eyes to emphasize her words. “These past few years, I’ve just been running. From Rahl, from what happened with Nadia, from what I did…I need to move on. Find my own path. I can’t do that if I’m chasing after you.” 

It’s clear that Lauren is telling the truth; she needs this. Bo wants to argue, to find some way to convince Lauren to stay, but she knows deep down that it’s a selfish kind of want. After spending so much time never letting anyone get close enough to care about, to call friend, the idea of letting one of them just walk out of her life cuts deep. “I’ll miss you,” she finally says, squeezing Lauren’s hand. 

“I’ll miss you too,” Lauren replies, smiling that shy, fragile smile that Bo has always loved. “I hope you can find peace, somehow. Be happy.” 

Bo forces a smile, bumping Lauren’s shoulder with her own. “I’ll try if you will.”

Lauren’s smile turns into a grin as she gives Bo’s hand another squeeze. “You’ve got a deal.”

***

Tamsin shifts awkwardly, wishing she had her agiel at her side to ground her. She is a skilled warrior, a capable woman, and a formidable Mord-Sith, but there are certain situations in which she simply does not excel. Tear-filled goodbyes are one example.

Felridge is a quiet village; boring, really. Why the healer has chosen such an out-of-the-way place to put down roots is a mystery to Tamsin, but she doesn’t particularly feel like arguing. Lauren is the one person who has refused to relax around her, and Tamsin hasn’t been blind to the tension it’s created in the group as a whole. Things should become a lot more comfortable once they leave her behind.

Of course, Tamsin is the only one who sees it that way. Everyone else was predictably heartbroken when Lauren broke the news—except for Bo, who only wore a sad look of acceptance; not that Tamsin was paying attention. Now the day they’ve dreaded has come, and they’re set to leave Felridge just as soon as this ridiculous display of hugging and crying is finished. 

Lauren has made her rounds, leaving Bo for last. The two have been clinging to one another far longer than necessary, murmuring in voices too low to hear. Tamsin rolls her eyes, trying to ignore the strange tight feeling in her chest—the way it eases when Bo and Lauren finally separate, only to return when their lips meet in a soft, chaste kiss. When Bo pulls away for good, stepping back to pull Kenzi into a sideways embrace, Tamsin breathes a sigh of relief and tells herself that she’s just glad to finally be getting back on the road. 

She doesn’t expect any sort of farewell—they’ve hardly been friendly—so when Lauren pauses in front of her, pinning her with a shrewd, calculating gaze, Tamsin tenses reflexively. She’s not sure if Lauren intends to hit her or talk to her—or which would be worse. 

“Bo trusts you,” Lauren says simply, with a hint of grudging respect. “Look out for her.” 

Tamsin shrugs. “Don’t have much of a choice,” she offers with a smirk. 

Shaking her head, Lauren almost cracks a smile. “She doesn’t see it that way.” Her eyes lock onto Tamsin’s. “Be careful.” 

The layers of meaning behind the words are all too clear, and Tamsin isn’t sure what she resents more: that her feelings are so obvious, or that she has them at all. She scowls silently as Lauren turns to give the group one last wave, then heads back down the road into the village. When she turns to find Bo eyeing her curiously, it gets a little harder not to smile. 

_Be careful, indeed._

***

The scenery changes as they travel, growing more familiar as the Rang’Shada mountains loom closer and larger. Bo hasn’t been through this part of the Midlands in over a decade, since she left behind her parents and the only home she’d ever known. The villages they pass through now are the ones that suffered the most in Bo’s initial escape, before she taught herself to control the power flowing in her veins. It’s only a matter of time before Bo comes face to face with one of her former confessed; even so, it takes her by surprise when it finally happens.

She doesn’t recognize him at first. He’s nothing more than a beggar in rags, leaning up against a well near the village gates. A tattered basket and a hand spade that has seen better days are all he appears to possess. Bo almost passes him by, but her gaze drifts over to him at just the right moment to meet his eyes. 

“You.” He almost spits the word. The basket he was holding out for alms is snatched back, held protectively against his chest. 

“Do I know you?” Bo asks, frowning as she turns toward him. There’s a wild look in his eyes, like something in his head has shaken loose. 

“Of course not,” he sneers. His free hand curls around the handle of his spade, and he pushes himself to his feet. “Why would you remember me? You only took everything from me!”

Bo gasps softly as it hits her. He’s a farmer, or was before he met Bo. It was mere days after she’d left her parents, and she’d been surviving on what food she could steal from the outskirts of villages—which wasn’t much. When she saw his fields, ripe with more varieties of vegetable than she ever knew existed, she couldn’t resist. Surely he wouldn’t miss a few carrots here and there, a squash or two tucked away in her bag. She hadn’t counted on him hearing her, or coming outside to investigate who or what was raiding his crops. He’d grabbed her wrist to pry a tomato from her grasp; his last act of free will, at least until Bo’s recent death set him free.

“Recognize me now, do you?” he asks with a bitter laugh. “If you’ve come to take what I’ve got left, you’re going to be disappointed. I’ll die before you enslave me again.” 

“I’m sorry,” Bo chokes out, guilt pressing down on her chest. “I didn’t know—”

“Didn’t know you were destroying my life?” He steps forward, his face a study in conflict. There’s shame, anger, grief—and beneath it all, a tiny, wavering flash of crazed devotion. “My family left me,” he says, his voice shaking. “My wife, she took our children and fled; she couldn’t live with a man who loved another woman more than her.”

“I—I don’t know what to say.” Bo feels Trick stepping closer to her side, reaching up to rest a hand on her arm. 

The man rants on, not paying any attention to her words. “But I stayed, like you told me to. I stayed and I tended my fields, for years, with nothing but my crops for company. All to please you, _Mistress_ ,” he finishes, his body shaking with the force of his rage.

“What happened to your farm?” Bo asks, swallowing around the lump in her throat. “If you kept working—”

Laughter erupts from the man’s lips, resentful and humorless, and Bo falls silent. “You think I could stay there?” He gestures erratically with his spade. “After being your slave for ten years, how could I live in the same place where you took everything I had? How could I let it _exist_?” He shakes his head, stepping closer still. “I burned that house to the ground,” he hisses, raising the edge of the spade to Bo’s throat. “Razed the fields. It’s gone now, thanks to you.” 

“You’d do well to step back, my friend,” Trick warns, removing his hand from Bo’s arm and extending it toward the beggar.

“I’m not your friend,” he spits back. Bo can feel the dull edge of the metal pressing into her skin. It’s not likely to do any serious damage, but there’s murder in the man’s eyes. “And who are you to deny me my revenge?”

Suddenly the man’s arm seizes up, and the spade falls to the ground. As Bo steps back, she can see her would-be attacker’s arms pinned to his body by a shimmering web of power. 

“Revenge is hollow,” Trick says calmly, holding his hand steady. As small as he is, he can intimidate the largest of opponents when he calls on his magic. “If you value your life, I suggest you find another way to move on.” 

The hate in the man’s eyes never falters, but Bo can see the moment he gives up on his attack. “Fine,” he grits out. “You win.”

“It’s okay, Trick,” Bo says, placing a hand on Trick’s shoulder. “He’s telling the truth.” 

As soon as Trick’s magic releases him, the beggar snatches his spade up from the dirt. Before he can make a run for it, Bo reaches toward him; she retracts her hand instantly when he flinches. 

“Wait,” Bo says, reaching for the pouch of coins on her belt. It’s not much—enough to replenish some of their healing supplies, maybe pick up a shiny trinket for Kenzi—but it’s more than he has. “I want you to have this. You need it more than we do.” 

The man eyes her warily as he reaches for the pouch, careful to avoid any contact with Bo’s skin. Once he has a hold on it, he yanks it from her grasp, pulling back to a safe distance. He opens the top of the pouch, peering inside at the contents, before looking back up at Bo. He almost looks offended. “You think this makes up for it?”

Bo shakes her head, folding her arms over her ribs. “No. Nothing can. I’m so s—”

“Sorry,” he finishes bitterly. “Right. That’s a real comfort from a thief and a murderer. The Keeper take you and your damned empty words.” 

Tears prick at Bo’s eyes as she watches him storm off. She used to think nothing could be worse than seeing that blank look of devotion on the faces of her confessed. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Bo,” Trick says softly, reaching for her arm again. “He’s out of his mind. You can’t judge yourself on the ramblings of a madman.”

“He’s right, Trick,” Bo chokes out, sinking down onto the edge of the well. Her hands grip tight to the rough stone on either side of her. “I took his life from him, as surely as if I’d slit his throat.”

Trick sighs, resting his hand on her knee. “You didn’t know any better. You can’t be blamed for something you had no idea how to control.” 

“Then who _is_ to blame?” Bo shoots back. She pulls her hands in front of her, tracing the lines in her palms with her eyes. They look like any other person’s hands; calloused from weapon use, sprinkled with a variety of scars. They’re a fighter’s hands—but unlike other fighters, Bo’s hands are a weapon on their own. How many lives have these hands destroyed?

“Sometimes things happen,” Trick says, covering Bo’s hands with one of his own, “and no one can be blamed for them. You just have to make the best of your situation and move forward.” 

Bo looses a watery chuckle, turning her eyes skyward. “How?” 

“By making peace with your past,” Trick replies with a kind smile. “And looking to the future. Keep to the path ahead, not the road behind.”

In spite of herself, Bo smiles. “That’s very wise.”

Trick grins. “Well, it was a wise man who taught it to me.” 

Making peace with her past is a daunting prospect. Bo can’t even count the number of people she confessed during her time on the run, let alone track them all down—but she knows where to start. “I have to go see my parents,” she says finally, though the idea terrifies her.

Trick seems to share her misgivings. “Are you sure, Bo? You saw how this man reacted to you, and they were confessed far longer than him. There’s no way of telling what you’ll be walking into.” 

“I have to know,” Bo replies. The more she thinks about it, the more she’s sure of what she has to do. “I can’t keep running from my past, Trick. If I ever want to make peace with it, to move on, I have to face it.” 

The smile Trick gives her is full of pride. “Then you have my support,” he says, squeezing her hands gently. “You know any one of us would be happy to go with you.”

Bo smiles, turning her hands to clasp Trick’s. “Thanks, but I think this is something I have to do on my own.” 

Trick raises an eyebrow. “You know Kenzi won’t let you leave her behind.”

A chuckle bubbles up in her throat, and she shakes her head. He has a point. “Well, mostly on my own.”


	11. Chapter 11

Dunshire is a small town, and quiet—even more so than usual, it turns out. Most of its sons were sent off to fight Rahl's army, and few have returned. Though the circumstances are unfortunate, Bo is grateful for the calm. She knows she has to do this, to finally put her past to rest, but the uncertainty of what she might face at her childhood home has her on edge. 

The moon is nearly full, shining silver light down on the town and illuminating the mountains rising up behind it. A breeze rustles through the leaves of nearby trees, brushes through Bo's hair, chilling her face. She pulls her jacket tighter around herself, leaning back against the simple wooden fence outside of the town's inn. The others are inside, celebrating the first night in more than a month that they have a roof over their heads, a table to eat at, beds to sleep on. Their laughter carries on the wind to Bo's ears, and a dull ache settles in her chest.

Maybe when Bo gets back, she'll be in the mood for celebration. Right now she's not sure she'll even be able to sleep tonight. 

"You're missing the party." 

Bo looks up to see Tamsin leaning against the outside wall of the inn; her eyebrow is raised, and the smirk playing at her lips seems a little more lopsided than usual.

"I needed some air," Bo says with a shrug.

"They have air inside," Tamsin points out, pushing away from the building to take a few swaying steps toward Bo. "And ale. Lots of ale."

Despite Bo's anxious mood, laughter bubbles up in her throat as she watches Tamsin approach. "Are you drunk?"

"No," Tamsin scoffs, leaning heavily against the fence beside Bo. She nearly loses her balance, and she grabs the wood rail to steady herself. Her head cocks to the side as she frowns. "Maybe. I don't really know how to tell." 

Bo chuckles, turning her body to face Tamsin. "What, Mord-Sith don't drink?"

Tamsin shrugs. "We try to avoid it. We're all about control," she says, her voice almost mocking. She glances over at Bo, and her expression softens. "It's refreshing to let loose a little bit."

A bittersweet smile touches Bo's lips. "Must be nice," she sighs. She's had a hard enough time learning to control the power within her without the added challenge of intoxication. 

Something flickers through Tamsin's eyes, almost like an apology. She turns her gaze to the ground in front of her, fidgeting absently with the front of her shirt. Silence settles between them, and it lasts long enough that Bo nearly jumps out of her skin when Tamsin abruptly inhales. 

"You should know…" Tamsin says slowly, looking anywhere but at Bo. Finally she sighs. "The confessors on Valeria are dead."

Bo's eyes widen, and she reaches for Tamsin's arm, tugging until Tamsin looks at her. "How do you—"

"It…wasn't my mission," Tamsin replies, cutting her off. Her eyes meet Bo's briefly before darting away, almost guilty. "But we all heard about it. Lord Rahl didn't exactly try to hide it." 

"Wow." Bo lets out a deep breath, sagging against the fence. She's never given much thought to the other confessors—didn't even know there were others, until she met Trick a few years ago. Still, to think they've been all but wiped out…it's a sobering thought. "So Kahlan and I…"

"Might be the only confessors left," Tamsin finishes, peering back at Bo. She hesitates before forcing out her next words. "Just…be careful tomorrow."

The news of her long-lost sisters' demise fades into the back of Bo's mind, eclipsed by the warmth she feels blossoming in her chest at the concern Tamsin is trying valiantly to hide. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you cared," she teases, leaning in just a little. 

Tamsin doesn't smile, or offer a defense. It could be the alcohol—it's probably the alcohol—but her face is more open than Bo has ever seen it, and suddenly it's hard to breathe. Bo leans back, away from Tamsin, turning her eyes up to the moon as she tries to focus.

"You sure about this?" Tamsin says, after a long pause. She nods up toward the mountains. 

"No," Bo admits, following her gaze. "But I owe it to them—and to myself." A smirk plays at her lips as she glances sideways at Tamsin. "You going to be able to play nice while I'm gone?"

"I'll be fine," Tamsin says with a shrug, dragging out the syllables longer than necessary. "If I get too bored, I'm sure Dyson can keep me occupied." 

The blood drains from Bo's face, and something tightens in her chest. She chides herself for her reaction; she doesn't have any claim on Tamsin—or Dyson, for that matter. It shouldn't matter how either of them pass their time. 

"Sparring," Tamsin clarifies, noticing Bo's discomfort. Her smirk fades into a look of earnest uncertainty. "Or…I could go with you."

It's an offer as tempting as it is dangerous. Bo sighs, forcing herself to meet Tamsin's gaze. "That might not be a good idea," she says softly.

"What's the matter?" Tamsin leans closer, a playful grin touching her lips. "Don't you trust me?"

Bo's eyes dart over Tamsin's face, settling on her mouth. Her throat has gone dry, and she swallows roughly to moisten it. "I don't trust me."

Tamsin starts to scoff, but it doesn't take her long to notice how Bo is looking at her. Any hint of mirth dissolves as the inebriated smile slides from her face. Slowly, deliberately, she shuffles herself closer, until Bo can smell ale and leather and sweat. 

"Tamsin, what are you doing?" Bo breathes. Her heart is pounding in her throat, her fingers are digging into the rail, and she knows she should back away, right now, but she can't seem to make her feet move.

Instead of speaking, Tamsin replies by closing the remaining distance between them. Her lips are soft, hesitant as they brush against Bo's; when a surprised moan vibrates in Bo's throat, Tamsin presses harder, one hand gripping the fence while the other slides into Bo's hair. 

Bo moans again when Tamsin's tongue sweeps across her bottom lip, urging her mouth open. Her own hands move almost on their own accord, one drifting to Tamsin's hip and the other to cup the side of her face. Desire is clouding Bo's mind, and she can feel her body coming alive where it pushes against Tamsin's. It would be so easy to give in.

Out of nowhere, Kyle's face flashes in Bo's mind, and she freezes. The image is followed by a cascade of memories, of Mord-Sith writhing in pain as her power takes their lives. Her memory twists, and instead of some nameless, faceless Mord-Sith, it's Tamsin who's curling in on herself, her face contorted with agony as she dies. 

With a sharp gasp, Bo shoves at Tamsin's shoulders and backs away, putting several paces between them. Her eyes are wide as she stares, taking in the dark flush of Tamsin's cheeks, the glistening swell of her lips, the look in her eyes that's part confusion, part shock, part desire. 

When Tamsin steps forward, an apology poised on her lips, Bo turns and all but runs back inside.

***

_Thwack!_

Pieces of bark fly up as Tamsin's sword cleaves into the tree. The impact vibrates up through her weapon, making the hilt almost come alive in her hands. It's not nearly as satisfying as her agiel, but in her haste to avoid Bo this morning, she left her pack behind. 

The trunk of the tree is littered with the scars of previous strikes; she's been out here a while. Yanking the blade free, Tamsin raises her arms to deliver another blow.

"How about a real opponent?"

Tamsin stops mid-swing, turning to glare at Dyson. "Sure," she says dryly. "Let me know when you find one." She readies her sword again.

"Bo and Kenzi are on their way up the mountain," Dyson says, leaning casually against another nearby tree. 

She shrugs, her shoulders tense as she brings her sword down in a powerful arc, sending more bark flying. 

After a moment, Dyson speaks again. "Didn't want to see them off?"

Clenching her jaw, Tamsin gives her head a little shake. It's still pounding from all the alcohol last night, but she's no stranger to pain. "They'll be back in a couple of days."

When she raises her sword again, Dyson steps forward, catching her arm. "Did something happen between you and Bo?" His voice is calm, but firm—he knows the answer must be yes. 

That doesn't mean she can't deflect, though. "What are you talking about?" She furrows her brow, pulling her arm out of his grasp.

Dyson chuckles, ignoring her denial. "You're not the first to fall for her."

Tamsin scoffs. "I knew you were a pathetic fighter," she says, shoving her sword back in the scabbard at her hip. "I had no idea you were also an idiot." 

"You think you can hide it?" Dyson grins, unaffected by her scathing tone. "We all see how you look at each other."

"She's a confessor," Tamsin deadpans, gripping the hilt of her sword tightly. That should be all that matters—that should be the end of it. 

Dyson steps closer, slipping between Tamsin and her inanimate victim. "That may prevent her from being with someone," he says, leaning back against the damaged tree. "But trust me, it does _not_ keep her from falling in love—or anyone else from returning that love." 

_Love._ The word may as well be in a foreign language, for all Tamsin knows of it. It's a weakness, a liability, a weapon easily turned against its holder. She wants to deny it, but she can't force her mouth to form the words. Finally, she lets out an irritable sigh. "What's your point?"

"My point is, you don't have to go through it alone. I've been there." A shadow glimmers in his eyes, the ghost of pain not quite healed. He's left the smile behind now, his expression somber and sympathetic.

"And?" Tamsin may not be able to deny his implication, but that doesn't mean she's ready to admit it. 

Dyson shrugs. " _And_ , if you ever want to talk about it, I'm here."

Tamsin narrows her eyes, searching her mind for any hidden motives he might have. She doesn't find any. "I'm not much for talking," she finally says. 

He nods, her response not surprising him in the least. "Well, at least let me spar with you," he says, pushing off of the tree and drawing his sword. His eyebrow shoots up as he glances at the battered tree trunk. "I think the tree's had enough punishment." 

Pulling her own sword free once more, Tamsin grins. Fighting, she can do.

***

It's late afternoon by the time the cabin comes into view. The pen out in front has seen better days; the wood is worn and rotting, and in some places the beams have come loose from the posts, leaving wide gaps in the fence. Any animals it once housed have long since either escaped or been slaughtered for meat.

The cabin itself is in a similar state of disrepair. A couple of the windows have been boarded up, and the shutters on one of the others look about ready to fall off. The thatched roof is missing several patches, though an attempt has been made to cover the holes with foliage from the trees nearby. 

Bo's heart leaps into her throat as she glimpses a flash of movement through one of the open windows. She presses her hand to her stomach, hoping to ease the violent churning within. "I don't know if I can do this," she says, shaking her head as she stares at her childhood home. 

"Of course you can," Kenzi says firmly. Bo wants to believe her, but she still remembers the look of hatred in that farmer's eyes—can she bear to see it in her parents'? "Bo, listen to me," Kenzi says, turning Bo to face her. "No matter what happens in there, you are a _good_ person. What happened to them was _not_ your fault." 

Bo draws a deep breath, then releases it as a ragged sigh. "Somehow I don't think they'll see it that way. I stole _decades_ of their lives, Kenz." 

"Hey," Kenzi says sharply, giving Bo's shoulders a resolute squeeze. "I thought we were done with this self-pity shit. You can't blame yourself for something you had no control over—something you don't even _remember_ doing."

Tears prick at Bo's eyes, and she swallows hard. "I know," she murmurs. It doesn't ease the guilt much, but she does know that there's nothing she could have done to prevent what happened. 

"We didn't hike all this way up a damn mountain to give you more shit to beat yourself up with," Kenzi continues, keeping her eyes locked on Bo's. "We came here for closure. For you and for them. So march that perky confessor butt over there and knock on that door." 

In spite of her nerves, Bo can't help but smile. "Oh Kenzi," she says, wrapping her arms around Kenzi's shoulders and pulling her close. "What would I do without you?"

Kenzi looses a dramatic sigh as she returns the hug, patting gently at Bo's back. "Let's hope you never have to find out," she says, shuddering in Bo's arms. "The very idea is unthinkable." 

When she pulls out of the embrace, Bo feels a little more confident than before. "Okay," she says, breathing deep to steady herself. "Time to get this over with."


	12. Chapter 12

The woman who answers the door is older than Bo remembers, more weathered, but the smile that springs to her lips at the sight of Bo is the same as it's always been. It's so far from what Bo has expected, what she's prepared herself for, that all she can do is stand there as her mother rushes into her arms. 

"Beth," Mama says, her voice full of happiness and relief and love. It pulls at something deep in Bo's chest, and she slowly brings her own hands up to press against her mother's back. 

"Mama," Bo half-sobs, sinking into the embrace. She feels like a child all over again, untested and unsure, looking to her mother for all the answers. This is the home she'd thought was lost forever. 

"Oh, sweetheart, it's so good to see you." Mama pulls away, holding Bo at arms' length and looking her over.

There's nothing in her mother's eyes but love and devotion—a devotion Bo remembers all too well. Bo frowns. "Mama, you're not mad?"

Confusion clouds Mama's eyes. "Why would I be mad?" She shakes her head gently, smiling. "Because you left? That doesn't matter, sweetheart, you're here now. And you've brought a friend," she adds, turning to smile at Kenzi. "What's your name, dear?"

"Uh…Kenzi," Kenzi offers with an uneasy wave. She glances over to share a concerned glance with Bo; whatever they thought they were walking into, this is not it. 

"It's lovely to meet you, Kenzi," Mama says. "Oh, you two must be hungry after hiking all the way up here! Come inside, I'm just about finished making supper." 

Predictably, Kenzi perks up a little at the prospect of food. Mama opens the door wider, ushering them inside. Bo looks at Kenzi and shrugs; she has no idea what's going on, but there's only one way to find out. 

The inside of the cabin is much the same as it always was: a large, open room with a stove in one corner and a table and chairs in another. There are two doors leading to the bedrooms on the back wall, and a stone fireplace built into the wall to their right. As they enter and put their packs down by the door, Mama breezes past them, heading for the stove where a worn metal pot is bubbling merrily. 

"Have a seat, dears," Mama says, gesturing to the table before turning her attention to the food. 

As Bo steps closer to the table, she can see two plates already set out in front of the two older-looking chairs. The third chair is newer, the wood a bit lighter; it was Bo's chair, built by her father when she was old enough to sit at the table with her parents. Swallowing roughly, Bo sits down at her place as her mind floods with memories. 

"Okay, so what is going on here?" Kenzi says in a hushed voice, sinking down into the chair closest to Bo. "I mean, is she still confessed?"

"That's impossible." Bo glances at her mother, then back to Kenzi. "All of my confessed have been freed. That farmer in Norwood certainly wasn't confessed anymore." Her stomach turns just thinking about how angry he was—that was what she expected from her mother, not this joyful welcome. 

"Well, something's up," Kenzi replies. "Maybe she was confessed too long, or something went wrong and she didn't get released. I just know that _that_ —" she nods toward Bo's mother, who is getting ready to head back over with the food. "—is not right."

"Here you are, sweetheart," Mama says, setting the pot down on the table. "Oh, let me get a plate for your friend."

"Mama," Bo says as her mother returns with another plate and starts scooping stew onto it, "I have an important reason for coming here. I need to talk to you, and to Papa. Is he going to be back soon?"

Her mother freezes, holding the ladle midway between the pot and the plate in her hand. She shakes her head a little to clear her confusion, and her eyes start to glisten with tears. 

"I'm sorry," Bo says, her heart sinking into her stomach. "Is he…?"

When Mama looks up, there's something different in her face—something has shifted. "Dead?" she chokes out. Her expression hardens, her eyes narrowing in accusation. Her voice is bitter, full of disgust. "Of course he is—thanks to you." 

The words hit Bo like a physical blow, knocking the air from her lungs. "What happened?" 

"He tried to follow your orders," Mama says, letting the ladle drop back into the pot and setting the plate down onto the table. "We both did. But he was restless—he thought he should be at your side, protecting you." 

Bo gasps softly. "He came to find me?"

Mama's face twists with something between grief and anger. "He tried. He was so eager to find his mistress that he wasn't watching the path—tripped on a tree root and broke his neck. I had to drag his body back myself to bury him." 

Tears are welling up in Mama's eyes, but her tone is hard to decipher. It's not clear if she hates Bo's father or misses him; maybe even she doesn't know. It's obvious, though, that she blames Bo for his death—and Bo can't think of any reason to argue.

"I'm sorry," Bo says, her voice catching in her throat. 

"You're sorry," Mama scoffs. She shoves the stew pot aside, spilling its contents all over the floor. When she looks at Bo again, her eyes are blazing with fury. "Well that just makes it all better, doesn't it? Sorry can't bring him back! Sorry can't give us back all those years we lost because of you!" 

"Hey!" Kenzi jumps to her feet, putting herself between Bo and her mother. "She was a kid. It's not her fault!" 

"So loyal," Mama sneers. She looks past Kenzi to where Bo sits frozen in her seat. "Did you use your Keeper-cursed magic on her too?"

"Mama." It's both an apology and a plea for mercy. Tears spill over Bo's cheeks as she searches for words—but there's nothing she can say to make this better.

Kenzi whirls around and kneels down, grabbing Bo's shoulders. "Bo-Bo, don't you dare listen to her."

The conviction in her friend's voice is lost on Bo. "But she's right, Kenzi," Bo sobs, holding her arms to her stomach. "I'm a monster." 

"No you're not." Kenzi sighs and wraps Bo in her arms, hugging her fiercely. "You are a good person, and none of this is your fault." 

Bo clings to Kenzi, wishing she could believe her. Right now she feels sixteen again, discovering that her entire life has been a lie. All she's been through since, all the progress she's made—it feels like another lifetime, another person. 

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Mama's voice is soft again, concerned. When Bo looks up at her, it's as if the past few minutes never happened. "What can I do to make it better?" 

Confusion only makes the tears come harder; Bo doesn't know what she's supposed to think, or feel. It's like her best and worst case scenarios all encompassed in one person, and she has no idea how to handle it. 

"Uh, she's probably just tired," Kenzi offers, standing and slipping an arm protectively around Bo's shoulders. She eyes Bo's mother suspiciously. "Long journey and all." 

Gratitude swells in Bo's chest, and she sags heavily against Kenzi. She doesn't know what she'd do without her best friend. 

"Perhaps a nap would help," Mama offers, wringing her hands worriedly. "Her bedroom is right through there." Looking around, she seems to notice the spilled pot of stew for the first time. "Oh, dear. I've got to clean this mess up, anyway. What in the name of the spirits happened here?"

Dazed, Bo lets Kenzi pull her up and guide her over to her bedroom door, leaving her mother fussing behind them.

***

"She kept it the same," Bo murmurs as she sinks down onto the edge of what used to be her bed, still reeling. The bedroom is as much a contradiction as her mother. The floor is swept clean, the bed neatly made, everything just as Bo remembers it, with a few major differences: the blankets tucked meticulously around the mattress are in tatters, the dresser is missing a few drawers, and the mirror on top of it is gone—a bundle of dried flowers now hangs over an empty wooden frame.

Propped against her pillow is what's left of a stuffed sheep her mother made for her as a child. The lambswool stuffing is spilling out of the place where its head used to be. Bo picks it up, holding it to her chest. 

"Uh, yeah, it's like you never left," Kenzi says sarcastically, picking at what look to be ax marks in the top of the dresser. "Destructive kid, weren't you?" 

"I'm not blind, Kenz," Bo says, rolling her eyes. She swallows, wipes at her cheeks. "I just thought she would have wanted to throw all this stuff out or something." 

"I'm not sure she knows what she wants," Kenzi points out. She leans back against the dresser, eyeing Bo carefully. "No offense, Bo-Bo, but I think your mom has kinda lost it." 

Bo lets out a soft, humorless laugh. "I think you're right." The room looks as though a tornado blew through it, then someone tried to put everything back just the way it was. Bo can almost feel the conflicting emotions—the anger in each splinter of wood, the care and devotion in each fold of her blanket. Her childhood toy was literally ripped apart, then lovingly placed on her pillow like it was waiting for her to come home. She shouldn't be this surprised; Trick warned her that coming out of confession after so long could have devastating effects on a person's mind, but Bo never quite envisioned this. 

For a while, they're both silent. Bo can feel Kenzi's eyes on her, watching her, wanting to know that she'll be okay. The trouble is, right now Bo's not sure she can make that assurance. It's one thing to know the damage she's caused—it's another thing entirely to witness it firsthand.

Out of nowhere, Kenzi climbs onto the bed, flinging her arms around Bo's neck and hugging her tightly—almost desperately. Bewildered, Bo brings her hands up to rest against Kenzi's back. "What's this for?" 

Kenzi breathes in sharply, pulling away to look Bo in the eyes. "It's just…you _died_ , Bo," she says, sitting back on her heels. She squeezes Bo's shoulders, then clasps her hands together in her lap. "It didn't really hit me before, 'cause you were here and alive and talking, but all this just made it sink in. You were _dead_." Her gaze stays locked on Bo, wide and unwavering, like she's afraid that if she looks away Bo will disappear. "I feel like I should have known somehow."

Bo smiles, reaching to take Kenzi's hands in her own. "I'm here, Kenz," she says, giving Kenzi's hands a squeeze. "I'm okay." 

At first, Kenzi eyes her skeptically, searching for the lie in Bo's words. The more Bo thinks about it, though, the more convinced she is that it's the truth. Seeing her mother like this brought back all of her old guilt and insecurity—it let her lose sight of what got her through it all the first time. As long as she has Kenzi and the rest of her newfound family by her side, she'll get through it again. 

Kenzi seems to know when the revelation has sunk in, and a smile creeps onto her lips as she pulls Bo into another hug. "Just don't ever do it again." 

"I'll do my best," Bo promises, stroking Kenzi's back reassuringly. 

When they pull apart again, Kenzi looks away, fiddling with a tear in the blanket. "So, how are you doing with the whole dead-father, crazy-mother thing?" 

Bo sighs. "Well, I wanted closure," she says. "I don't think it's going to make any difference to her, but…I should talk to her. Say goodbye." 

Nodding, Kenzi grabs Bo's hand and squeezes gently. "I got your back, Bo."

***

When they re-enter the main room, Mama is kneeling on the floor, wiping up broth with a rag. She looks up when she hears them, an anxious smile on her face.

"I'm so sorry about supper, girls," Mama says, dipping the rag into a bucket of wash-water. "Let me just finish cleaning this up, and I'll see what else I can scrounge up."

"That's okay, Mama," Bo says gently, taking her seat at the table once more. "Actually, I was hoping I could talk to you for a bit. Can you come sit with me?" 

"Of course." Mama's smile widens, and she drops the rag back into the bucket, drying her hands on the front of her apron. "What is it, sweetheart?"

Bo takes a deep breath. "This may not make much sense to you, and I don't know if you'll even remember it," she says, reaching for her mother's hands. "But I need to say it."

Mama nods uncertainly, confusion tightening her brow. 

"I'm sorry, Mama," Bo chokes out, tears pricking at her eyes again. "I'm so, so sorry for what happened to you. If I could go back and change it, I would." Kenzi's hand settles on her shoulder, and Bo flashes her a grateful smile before turning back to her mother. "But that's not possible," she continues, blinking back tears, "and I can't keep torturing myself over it. I was just a child. I had no way of knowing what I was, or what I did to you." 

"Oh, Beth," Mama says, holding tight to Bo's hands. Her own eyes are growing moist, though she still shows no sign of comprehending what Bo is talking about. "You were always such a good girl." 

Drawing a ragged breath, Bo struggles to hold onto her resolve. There's still one thing she needs to say. "You did a good job," she says shakily. "Even though you were both confessed, you and Papa raised a good person." Kenzi squeezes her shoulder encouragingly. "I can never make this right, Mama, but I'm doing what I can to be a person you'd be proud of."

A watery smile spreads across Mama's face, and she reaches out to cup the side of Bo's face. "I'm always proud of you, sweetheart." 

It kills Bo to have to leave her mother like this, confused and alone, but there's nothing more she can do here. "I'm going to go now, Mama," she says, reaching up to pull her mother's hand away from her face. She squeezes it gently. "Take care of yourself."

With a sigh, Bo forces herself to stand. Kenzi stays by her side as they head for the door, grabbing their packs along the way. Bo gives her mother one long, last look, and her heart breaks at how lost she looks. As she closes the door behind her, Bo knows that this image will be burned into her memory forever. 

"We could have taken her with us," Kenzi says, curling her fingers around the straps of her pack. 

Bo shakes her head, smiling sadly. "This place is all she's ever known, Kenz. I won't take that away from her too." 

Kenzi nods, then slips her arm around Bo's as they set off back down the path. "Okay, so I have to know," she says. "Beth?"

Bo rolls her eyes and pulls her arm free, wrapping it around Kenzi's shoulders and tugging her close as they walk. "Come on, I'll tell you on the way back."


	13. Chapter 13

Hale and Dyson are sparring in the yard outside of the inn when Bo and Kenzi finally make it back to Dunshire the next day. It's only mid-afternoon, but Bo is exhausted—emotionally and physically. After spending the night camped out on the side of the mountain, and the long hike back down to flat ground, few things sound better than a long, hot bath and a nice soft bed. 

Her family, though, is one of those things. Kenzi rushes toward Hale as soon as they're close enough; sparring is forgotten as he wraps his arms around her, swinging her briefly into the air before setting her down. The two of them are immediately swept up in animated conversation, punctuated by a seemingly equal number of kisses and smacks on the arm. Bo smiles wearily at them as she closes the distance at a much more reserved pace. 

When Dyson opens his arms, Bo practically falls into them. "It is so good to see you guys," she murmurs, pressing her cheek to his chest. 

"Likewise," Dyson responds, gently rubbing her back. "It's been a pretty boring couple of days without you two around to stir up trouble." 

"Very funny." Bo pulls back, shoving gently at Dyson's shoulder. "I seem to recall the two of you being pretty good at that yourselves." 

Dyson grins, giving her arms a squeeze before pulling away entirely. His eyes soften, and his smile fades into a more somber expression. "How did it go?" 

Bo sucks in a deep breath, searching for some way to explain it all; she's not sure where to start. Before she can come up with anything, the door to the inn creaks open, and Bo's attention is drawn to the new arrival. 

Tamsin stands awkwardly in front of the door as it falls shut behind her. It's obvious she wasn't expecting to see Bo; her eyes are locked on Bo's, her face unreadable, but her body is taut with sudden tension. 

Turning back to Dyson, Bo gives him an apologetic smile. "Why don't I tell you about it later?" 

He seems to understand almost before she even says anything; he nods and steps back, stopping only long enough to get Hale and Kenzi's attention before leading them back inside. 

Then it's only Bo and Tamsin, and the space between them filled with uncertainty.

***

Tamsin's hand drifts to her hip, reaching for an agiel that isn't there. She'll have to make it through this—whatever _this_ turns out to be—without the pain to center her thoughts. Not for the first time, she curses herself for letting Dyson talk her into drinking all that ale; she should have known nothing good could come from relaxing her ever-present sense of control.

Except, well…it had _felt_ pretty good. Tamsin purses her lips, trying not to outwardly scowl. 

"So," Bo says, clasping her hands nervously in front of her as she takes a tentative step forward. "We should probably talk." 

Staying firmly where she is, Tamsin shrugs. "If you say so." She doesn't see how talking is going to do anything productive, but Bo seems to be fond of it—sometimes irritatingly so. 

Bo continues to advance, until there's little more than a step between them. There's a frustrated look on her face, like she's trying to decide where to start, and it's only serving to make Tamsin even more tense. 

"Look," Tamsin finally says, eager to break the silence and get this over with, "if this is about the other night, it won't happen again. I was drunk, you were there. It didn't mean anything." 

Arching an eyebrow, Bo crosses her arms over her chest. "So we can add ale to the list of things that make you randomly kiss whoever happens to be around?" she asks skeptically. "Along with fighting?" 

"Guess so," Tamsin forces out, committed to the lie even if Bo's powers render it useless. 

"It's funny," Bo says casually, leaning against the wall next to Tamsin. "We've been in our fair share of fights since we left the Dal, and I don't remember anyone else being on the receiving end of your battle lust." 

"Well, I do have standards," Tamsin replies dryly.

Bo smiles, nudges Tamsin's shoulder with her own. "I must be special then, to meet such high standards," she teases.

Tamsin shrugs stiffly, keeping her eyes fixed on some point in the distance. _Special_ doesn't come close to describing what Bo is; Tamsin's own vocabulary doesn't contain the words that would suffice, the words she grasps for whenever she breaks down and lets herself dare to think about Bo. Hers is a language of death and pain—it could never adequately describe a woman so full of life. 

The scowl Tamsin has been trying to keep off of her face wins out, tightening her brow and tugging at the corners of her mouth. She never would have thought such pathetic, emotional drivel before she met Bo. 

"Tamsin," Bo says softly, turning her body to face Tamsin's. "If things were different—if I were different—I would like nothing more than to explore this thing between us." She says it matter-of-factly, not even allowing Tamsin a breath of a chance to argue. "But even if that's not possible, I am glad that you're in my life. I don't want to lose your friendship because we're too afraid to talk about our feelings." 

"Mord-Sith fear nothing," Tamsin scoffs, more harshly than necessary. "And you can't talk about something that doesn't exist." 

This time, it's Bo that doesn't get a chance to respond as Tamsin turns and heads back into the inn. Over-indulging in ale may be a bad idea, but a mug or two might be just what she needs to take the edge off of this maddening tension.

***

Later that evening, after she's filled everyone in on what happened with her mother, after she's had a hot meal and an even hotter bath, Bo is just about ready to get into bed when there's a knock on her door. For a moment, she lets herself hope that it might be Tamsin, ready to continue their earlier conversation. She tries not to show her disappointment when she opens the door to reveal Trick instead.

He smiles up at her apologetically. "I know it's late," he says, stepping inside when she opens the door wider to let him in. "I just wanted to check in with you, away from the others. You told us what happened, but you didn't say anything about how you felt about it." 

Bo sinks down onto the foot of her bed. "How I feel…" she muses. It's a simple question, with a complicated answer. "Confused. Guilty. I never should have left them there." 

Trick climbs up to join her on the edge of her bed, resting a hand against her arm. "Bo, it was an honest mistake. You had no way of knowing what would happen."

"I know," Bo replies with a weak smile. "I don't know if the guilt will ever go away, but I think I can finally accept that it wasn't my fault." Her smile fades. "I just wish there was more that I could do for her."

"There might be," Trick says. "I have a fair bit of coin left from selling the Dal—more than enough to pay someone in town to check in on her from time to time." 

Looking over at him with wide eyes, Bo shakes her head. "Trick, that's your money."

Trick slides his hand down to clasp Bo's. "And you're family. Coin will come and go, but peace of mind is not so easily found." A playful smirk tugs at his lips. "I won't take no for an answer."

There's no use arguing with him. Bo has tried to reject gifts from him before, when she thought they were too much or she didn't deserve them, and she's always ended up taking them in the end. "Thank you," she says instead, hoping he knows just how grateful she is.

"I'll arrange it before we set out in the morning," Trick says. He gives her hand a gentle squeeze, prompting her to look up at him. "I'm proud of you, Bo. It takes courage to admit you're not the monster you thought you were."

Bo has heard the words before—from Trick, from Kenzi, from everybody—but for the first time, she thinks she's starting to believe them. It opens up a world of other questions—if not that, then what is she? _Who_ is she?—but at the same time, fills her with a sense of peace she's never known before. 

If only she could find that kind of peace with her ill-fated love life. Tamsin's earlier lies were more telling than if she'd spoken the truth; there are feelings between them, feelings that Bo knows from experience will not simply go away. She's already lost Lauren to those feelings, and she knows Dyson has only stuck around out of sheer stubbornness. How many more times does her heart need to be broken before she learns her lesson?

As though reading her thoughts, Trick clears his throat, asking cautiously, "How are you faring with your other problem?"

"What problem?" Bo asks, feigning confusion. Trick just raises an eyebrow at her. She's never been a very good liar. "I'm just so tired of it, Trick," she finally says, frustrated tears pricking at her eyes. "No matter what I do, I keep falling into this same mess. I feel so damn much, and I can't seem to stop. It's like I'm destined to always want what I can never have." 

"You have more than many could hope for," Trick points out gently. 

Bo sighs. "I know," she says glumly. "But that doesn't stop me from wanting more." 

Trick regards her silently for a moment, and Bo can practically hear the wheels turning in his head. "Be patient with yourself," he says. "Not all realizations come at once. We'll be in Aydindril soon, and there will be plenty to keep your mind off of things. Given time, who knows what might happen?"

It's a strange way to put it; somehow, it feels like he's talking about more than just self-acceptance. When she looks up at him, though, he's got that practiced enigmatic smile on his lips, and the look in his eyes only says there's more to what he's saying, without a hint of what else it might be. 

"I'll let you get some rest." With one last pat on her hand, Trick slides off of the edge of the bed. He stops at the door, turning back to look at her. "Sleep well." 

Bo frowns as she watches him slip out the door. It's almost like he was trying to give her hope—maybe there's a way around her problem after all.


	14. Chapter 14

Days later, as the midday sun shines down warm and bright, Trick's wagon passes through the front gates of Aydindril. It's a huge city, bigger than any of the towns they've passed through in their trek across the Midlands. Within its walls are bustling streets, crisply-uniformed Home Guardsmen, traders hawking their wares. In the very center, the Confessors' Palace looms high above it all, visible from any point in the city. At first sight of it, Bo just stops and stares. It's surreal to think that the majestic building will soon be her home. 

They're met at the gates of the palace by a wizard named Alferon. He greets them warmly, nodding in deference to both Bo and Trick before leading them to their chambers. Zedd and Kahlan have written ahead, and rooms have been prepared for all of them in one of the palace's private wings. 

It's not her room that interests Bo, however—as lavish and spacious as it is. The library in the Confessors' Palace doesn't come near to rivaling that of the nearby Wizard's Keep, but it contains something far more valuable to Bo than any magical tome: records and journals of confessors going all the way back to Magda Searus, the very first confessor. Somewhere in here, Bo is convinced she will find something—an off-hand mention, a vague allusion, anything that might lead to an answer to her situation with Tamsin. 

Alferon happily guides Bo to the library, and is kind enough not to ask too many questions about what she's looking for. He simply points out the different sections, and leaves Bo immersed in a stack of small, handwritten journals. 

Bo doesn't realize how long she's been there until her eyes begin to ache; the sun has begun to set, and the fading light is hardly easy to read by. She stands, stretches out her cramped muscles before looking around for something to light one of the reading lamps with. 

"I can help you out with that," Trick offers as he enters the room. He steps up to the table Bo has been working at, and lights the lamp there with a snap of his fingers. It's no substitute for daylight, but it will suit her purposes. 

"Thanks," Bo says, offering him a grateful smile as she sinks back down into her chair. She pulls the next book off the stack, opening to the first page of tight, curling script. 

"You've been holed up in here for hours," Trick comments, his tone edged with concern. "What are you hoping to find?"

She glances up at him. "I think you know," she says, turning her eyes back down to the words on the page. 

Trick sighs. "I told you once that there was no way for you to take a lover without confessing them." 

"Yeah, well, you're also fond of saying that you don't know everything," Bo retorts, her eyes darting over the lines of text. "There's got to be something in one of these books, some way to get around it." 

After a pause, Trick asks cautiously, "Is Tamsin truly worth all of this?"

Bo looks up, resolutely meets his gaze. "She's worth more." 

Something shifts in Trick's expression as he nods; it sets Bo wondering as he climbs up onto the chair next to her. He rests a large velvet pouch on the table, and Bo's curiosity is heightened by the muffled sound of metal on wood.

"The palace keeps a number of these in the treasury, for training young confessors to control their powers," Trick explains, sliding the pouch toward Bo. "I wasn't sure there would be any left after the war, but I hoped." 

Furrowing her brow, Bo reaches for the pouch, tugs it open, slips her hand inside. Her fingers curl around cold steel. Pulling the object free from the pouch, Bo realizes it's a collar, hinged in a few places and locked securely in what she assumes is the front. "What is it?"

"A Rada'Han," Trick says. The corners of his mouth twitch like he's trying not to smile. "It binds the wearer's magic—renders them powerless."

The breath has been sucked from Bo's lungs; her heart pounds in her throat. "So if I wear this…" She can't even bring herself to finish the sentence—can't bear to get her hopes up if it's not what she thinks.

"You can't confess anyone," Trick finishes. A smile breaks free on his lips. 

Bo gasps softly, turning the metal band over in her hands. She frowns, torn between two extremes of emotion. She's amazed, ecstatic at this gift, but at the same time… "Why didn't you tell me about this before?" she asks, hurt bleeding into her voice. "You saw what I went through with Dyson, with Lauren." 

"Yes, I did." Trick sighs, reaching out to cover Bo's hand with his own. "I saw you run away from your nature, and punish yourself for events beyond your control. There were things you needed to understand first—about yourself, about your power. I had to know you wouldn't just use this to avoid or deny your nature." 

Though she wants to argue, Bo has to admit that he has a point. If she'd known such an object existed back when she'd met Dyson, or when she fell for Lauren, she probably would have ignored her powers, pretended to be just another person. She never would have made peace with herself and her past. Looking back down at the Rada'Han, Bo smiles. By giving this to her now, Trick is telling her that she's ready for all the possibilities it unlocks. 

"So does this mean you approve?" Bo asks, smirking at him. 

Trick grins and shakes his head, reaching into a pocket and withdrawing a small key attached to a delicate chain. "I approve of you finding happiness," he says, turning her hand over and pressing the key into her palm. "I admit, I hoped you would find it with Dyson." Bo gapes at him, remembering all of his dire warnings and disapproval when she and Dyson were first getting close. He chuckles, holds up a palm in defense. "The world needs more confessors, especially now," he clarifies. "But if Tamsin makes you happy, you should be free to embrace that." 

"I don't know what to say," Bo says softly. It's hard to believe that this simple piece of steel, so plain and unassuming, holds the answer to what she's wanted so fiercely. 

"You don't have to say anything," Trick replies, smiling fondly. "I know I don't really have the right, but I've come to think of you and Kenzi as something like daughters."

Bo sets the Rada'Han back down on the table, pulls Trick into a hug. "And we couldn't ask for a better father," she murmurs. "Thank you, Trick." 

When the embrace ends, Trick slides off of his chair, resting a hand briefly on Bo's arm. "Be careful with it," he warns. "Not only will it keep you from confessing a lover, it will prevent you from using your power to defend yourself as well. Don't put yourself in a situation you can't get out of."

"You got it, Dad," Bo retorts, with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. As he leaves the room, chuckling to himself, Bo's thoughts turn to something more serious: what to do next.

***

"I don't know what to do, Kenz." Bo sits cross-legged on Kenzi's bed, her hands fidgeting anxiously in her lap. The Rada'Han rests on top of its velvet pouch in front of her, heavy with possibility.

Across from Bo, Kenzi raises an eyebrow. "Talking to her would be a good start." 

Chewing on her lower lip, Bo looks up at her friend. "What if she doesn't feel the same way?"

Kenzi scoffs. "We are talking about the same person, right?" Her expression softens when Bo shoots her a beseeching look. "Bo, she turned her back on everything she ever knew to save your life. She's followed you all over the Midlands—to _Aydindril_ , also known as the last place a Mord-Sith would ever want to go. Spirits, she let me give her a makeover after a few words and a pretty smile from you." She shakes her head, holding her hands up at her shoulders. "If that girl's not smitten, I don't know what smitten looks like."

"You're right," Bo sighs. "But what if that's not enough? I mean, we're sworn enemies. What if I do this and it doesn't work out? I don't want to get hurt again, and I definitely don't want to hurt her." 

"I don't know, she might like it if you hurt her," Kenzi quips, waggling her eyebrows. At Bo's weak laugh, Kenzi reaches across the space between them, clasping Bo's hands tightly. "Bo-Bo, you have the biggest heart of anyone I have ever met," she says earnestly. "I've always thought it was, like, the cruelest joke ever that you couldn't share it with anyone. This—" Kenzi lets go of Bo's hands and picks up the collar, holding it up to make her point, "—this thing makes it possible for you to do that."

"But—"

"Shush, I'm not done," Kenzi says, waving her free hand. "It's not a lifetime commitment," she continues. "This isn't a choice that you have to live with for the rest of your days, or some dramatic shit like that. If it doesn't work out, it doesn't work out. And yeah, it'll probably hurt, but I'm pretty sure you're both already hurting plenty by holding back." She pulls in a deep breath, releases it in a rush. "Okay, I think I'm done."

A smile steadily grows on Bo's lips as she considers what Kenzi has said. Glancing back up, the smile turns into a full-blown grin, and Bo surges forward, pulling Kenzi into a slightly awkward hug. Kenzi rolls with it, dropping the Rada'Han back onto the bed and wrapping her arms around Bo. 

"I am so lucky to have you in my life," Bo murmurs. 

"Damn right you are," Kenzi says, pulling away from the embrace. She picks up the collar and its pouch, shoving it into Bo's hands. "Now go get your girl—or woman, or Mord-Sith, or whatever—you know what I mean. Go get her!" 

Bo lets Kenzi usher her off the bed and obediently makes her way to the door. Her stomach is tied up in knots, and her heart feels like it might beat clear out of her chest. What she's about to do will change everything—hopefully for the better.

***

The palace is quiet. Outside, at least, there had been the ambient sounds of nature, the chattering of her traveling companions to fill the silence. Here, Tamsin can only just hear the sounds of the city drifting up through the window carved into one wall of her room.

It's unnerving; as unnerving as the ornate tapestries on the walls, the plush embroidered quilt on what is meant to be her bed—a bed much larger than the cot she was assigned at the temple. She's not used to this opulence, this peace. The absence of tortured screams echoing through the halls, the excess evident in the decorating—it all seems to mock her, to remind her at every turn that she does not belong here. While the wizard who met them certainly knew what she used to be—she saw it in how twitchy he was, how aware of her every movement—he has clearly not told anyone else. The few servants she's come across have greeted her with friendly smiles, as though she were simply an honored guest. If they knew what she really was—what she used to be—her reception would have been vastly different. 

Aydindril is no place for a Mord-Sith. 

Her leathers are laid out on the bed, freshly oiled and ready to be packed away again. It would be foolish to attempt to walk out of here in them, but she wants to be prepared to slip them back on once she leaves the city. Already, her skin is itching to feel the supple leather stretch and envelop her. 

At least, that's the reason she gives herself for the restless tension pounding through her veins. 

There's a soft, hesitant knock on her door. Tamsin reaches for her agiel, wrapping her fingers around it and nearly wincing at the pain; she's gone too long without its steady pulse at her side. "Come in," she says grudgingly, knowing that there's only one person that knock could belong to.

"Hey," Bo says, slipping inside and closing the door behind her. 

"Hey." Tamsin moves to the dresser, where her pack is waiting to be filled. She shoves the agiel into it, pretending it was her intention all along in holding the weapon. Her hands curl around the top edge of the dresser, grasping for whatever strength she can find. "Finally home, huh?"

"I am," Bo says softly, and Tamsin can hear her stepping closer. "But home has never been a place for me. It's the people I care about. I hope you know—"

"I should leave." Tamsin moves to the bed, methodically folding up her leathers while staunchly avoiding Bo's gaze.

Bo freezes, stunned, and it's all Tamsin can do not to look up and see the wounded expression on her face. "And go where?"

"Pamorah?" It's the first option that comes to Tamsin's mind. Truthfully, she hasn't given a lot of thought to where she's going to go. "The Seeker seems like a decent man—an idiot, but decent. He could probably use some help with his quest, and I _was_ trained to serve the Lord Rahl." 

"You heard him," Bo replies, with forced lightness in her tone. "He doesn't want that title." She steps closer, close enough to rest a hand on Tamsin's shoulder. 

The shirt and vest she borrowed from Bo weeks ago are a poor substitute for her leathers; Tamsin feels the heat of Bo's hand as acutely as if she were wearing nothing at all. She closes her eyes, clinging to the remnants of her willpower. 

"I don't want you to go." Bo's voice is soft, pleading. 

"Well it doesn't really matter what you want, does it?" Tamsin asks gruffly, shrugging off Bo's hand.

But Bo is persistent. Her hand returns to Tamsin's shoulder, gripping this time and tugging until Tamsin is forced to make eye contact. "Are you saying you don't want it?" She's not talking about leaving or staying now—this is about something far more terrifying. 

Tamsin clenches her jaw, trying to work up the strength to lie. It wouldn't do any good, though; somehow Bo has learned to peer through the cracks in her rigid discipline, to spot the signs she thought she was so good at hiding. She huffs, focusing her gaze on the wall behind Bo. "You've already gotten me to abandon my sisters, my duty, everything I've ever known. Are you really going to make me say this?" She cringes at the weakness bleeding through in her voice; it sounds like she's begging.

Bo slowly shakes her head, a smile inexplicably growing on her lips. "You don't have to say it," she says. Her hand drifts to her hip, untying a pouch from her belt. "I just had to be sure before I showed you this." 

As soon as the velvet pouch is placed in Tamsin's hands, she knows what it contains. She hasn't come across many of these—they're rare, and expensive—but she's held enough of them in her hands to recognize the ring of steel through the cloth. When she glances back up, Bo's smile has grown into a breathless, hopeful thing, driving the air from Tamsin's lungs. "Where did you—?"

Before she can finish, Bo surges forward, trapping the Rada'Han between their bodies as she pulls Tamsin into a kiss. There is no alcohol this time, no near-death experience to blame for her response; Bo is kissing her, and that's enough to destroy any hope Tamsin has of resisting. 

It's not like the other times they've kissed; Tamsin is the one caught off-guard, surprised, and Bo takes advantage of it. She slides her hands up over Tamsin's cheeks, back behind her neck, tugging her closer and keeping her from pulling away. There's passion in it, heat simmering just under the surface, but Bo is slow and deliberate, almost gentle in the way she moves her mouth against Tamsin's. When Tamsin parts her lips to welcome Bo's tongue, the soft moan that hums in Bo's throat is almost enough to banish any thought of what this all means. 

Almost, but not quite. It takes all of her strength and willpower, but Tamsin finally pushes away from Bo. Her breath comes in stuttering gasps, and she's sure her own cheeks match the bright flush of Bo's. She's felt physical desire before, but this is something deeper, something so much _more_ than she's ever experienced. Bo has felt it, though, she's been through it more than once, and Tamsin can't quite wrap her head around the fact that _she_ is Bo's first stop after discovering the Rada'Han. 

"You could have anyone," Tamsin says. It's not that she _wants_ to question this, or that she feels somehow inferior to Lauren or Dyson or anyone else Bo might find herself attracted to—but surely there's _someone_ better suited to what Bo is looking for. 

Bo just smiles, shakes her head. "I want _you_ ," she says, stepping in to take the pouch from Tamsin's hand. "Look, this isn't a marriage proposal, okay? I just want to see where this goes." 

It's something so simple, yet so terrifying in its uncertainty. This isn't something Tamsin can control, or torture into submission. This will require complete and utter surrender, and that's something Tamsin isn't even sure she knows how to do. "Bo—"

Once more, Tamsin finds her words cut short by Bo's lips on hers. It's quicker this time, sweet and chaste, just enough to silence the doubts Tamsin was stubbornly trying to voice. 

"Just say yes," Bo murmurs when she pulls away, resting her forehead against Tamsin's. 

As though Tamsin is capable of saying anything else. She wants to laugh at herself. Her surrender happened a long time ago; acknowledging it is nothing more than a formality. Swallowing around the nervous lump in her throat, Tamsin nods slowly, voicelessly. 

Like before, Bo doesn't need her to say the words. The tentative, hopeful smile on Bo's face stretches into a giddy grin. When she kisses Tamsin again, excitement and joy and desire infuse every pass of her lips. The Rada'Han is set aside on the bed, ready when they need it; right now, there is no danger of losing control. Desire is present, always present, but for the time being it's eclipsed by something Tamsin can only identify as _happiness_. It feels strange to even think the word, but as she slides her hands around Bo's waist, pressing as close as their clothes will allow, she can think of no word that fits better. 

Aydindril is no place for a Mord-Sith, but Tamsin is no longer Mord-Sith. Her training will always be with her, but she is more than her past. And maybe what Bo said before is true: home isn't a place. Standing here with Bo in her arms, she feels more at home than she ever has. 

And this is only the beginning.


End file.
